


Stormborn

by mwinterknights12



Series: Stormborn [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwinterknights12/pseuds/mwinterknights12
Summary: Since the execution of Queen Celene Lywenhart, cruelly referred to as the Last Lion, the Erelyi Isles has fallen into chaos. Under the leadership of her widower husband, King Lucius Bayard, Erelyi has fallen to the grips of war, slavery, and corruption. Determined to preserve the welfare of Erelyi and his homeland, The Vales, Arnbjorn Stormborn has devised a plan to restore order to the countries.Illia Stormborn has found herself swept up in her father's plans. What will come first? Her family loyalty or her heart?
Relationships: Illia Stormborn/Darius Eithor, Illia Stormborn/Joriell Greywinter
Series: Stormborn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625365
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! So, I haven't posted in quite a long time. Some of my previous readers might remember my original fan fiction series, Stormborn, which centered on Illia Stormborn and her adventures alongside the Dragonborn. Those stories have since been removed. After taking some time off, I realized I was losing motivation for my story because it was stuck in the framework of a video game when Illia's story was outside of that. Thus, I've decided to begin working on my own series which is not set in Skyrim nor will it relate to Skyrim (except for them mutually being fantasy lands).
> 
> I hope you all are willing to give it a chance. I've been working very hard on this. Thanks! :)

Summer of the 5th Era

A vacuum of midnight clouds expanded across the gray skies of Erelyi. For many, they would bring about a sense of relief. The drought had left the rolling fields withered and brown. Dirt and soil had scattered itself along the streets of Stalhold, ruining what little bread that remained for sale in the open markets. Still, the city would not break out into crowds of celebration. Although the rain told the peasants the joyous news that they would be able to eat come harvest season, dread encompassed all of Stalhold’s people.  
However, none could claim to be more hopeless than the kingdom’s heiress. Vivid purple irises drank in the impeding clouds, knowing full well they would secure the kingdom’s future for that season. Yet, Celene only found her heart empty at the thought. Although she was glad her people would be fed, it did not the remove the loss which was festering in her heart.

Cedrick was dead…

That hideous thought played over and over again in her mind, reminding her that she was alone. No tear would fall down her pale cheek. She had tried over and over again to cry but was always met with the same harsh reality of emptiness. Her brother had been taken from her, stolen by lowly bandits who wished to claim wealth from his noble corpse. Yet, they had stolen more than that. After three centuries of divine authority, her family’s dynasty had been stripped from them by the whim of a single arrow.  
The Lywenharts had ruled the Erelyi Isles for as long as history had been written. No poem or sonnet had not included their name or their glory. They had single handedly led Erelyi into a golden age. Her father, William Lywenhart the II had even expanded their territories by brokering a deal with the Vales. The Valeman, Arnbjorn Stormborn had played a vital role in bringing together his kinsmen to forge such peace with William Lywenhart. Cedrick was to inherit not just the Isles, but the islands of the scattered Vales. None of that mattered now.  
The Last Lion…  
That was her new title which had been dripping from the lips of venomous noblemen. It wasn’t only that her best friend and brother had been taken from her. Now Celene had to carry the weight of her father’s disappointment. His name would be lost to the shadows of history, forgotten due to his wife’s inability to produce multiple sons. Celene knew a woman was only valuable to a father as long as her maidenhood was intact. She was simply another pawn, another tool, in order to create peace between various nobles and kingdoms. She had been lucky that she had been too young to be promised in marriage to the leaders of the Vales.  
Cedrick had promised her that once he ascended to the throne that she would be free to marry who she deemed worthy. It mattered little now. The man she had wanted to marry had been wed to another woman some weeks prior. She had almost spoken out in her objections to Arnbjorn marrying Myradin, but little could be done. Even if he had returned her feelings, her father would have never allowed her to wed a native of the Vales. Bitterness had been eating away at her, but it seemed easier to lose a potential lover than a friend now. Although, Arnbjorn still remained loyal at her side, she felt helplessly alone without Cedrick.  
Damn it, woman…she thought miserably to herself. She needed to gain her composure. She could no longer be a little girl with halfhearted dreams. Her country needed a leader. Swallowing hard, she patted down the unnecessary folds of her black dress. She was certain that she looked like a ghost, not that she truly cared. However, it would be unwise to appear weak in front of the advisors and noblemen. 

“Celene,” She cursed bitterly at herself. The sound of Arnbjorn’s voice echoing in the silent hall still seemed to send a chill down her spine. She knew that she should remain as though she were stone, but Arnbjorn made her feel…normal. Like her, he felt the loss of Cedrick, not just as a future ruler but a dear friend. “I’m sorry, but your father is ready to announce his arrangements.”  
“Of course, he is.” Celene replied, somehow maintaining the composure in her voice. A loose strand of her silver hair dangled in front of her brow, trying to maintain its curl. She forced it back into place with her other wavy strands. “So, which nobleman has he decided to marry me off to?”  
She felt the warmth of Arnbjorn’s body radiate against her skin as he approached her. He was still as tall and looming as always. Although, he seemed slightly less kept today. His golden hair was not neatly combed in is normal manner. Even his cologne seemed watered down with the scent of ale. She hadn’t known that Arnbjorn drank.  
“Not a nobleman. Although, I’m not sure if you would prefer to hear it from me.”  
“I’d rather it be from a friend instead of a better.”  
“Your father loves-“  
“My father knows my value.” Celene replied coldly, ignoring the same usual speech she and Arnbjorn had danced around since she was sixteen. In two years, he had yet to change her mind. “If he’s not a nobleman then who is he?”  
Arnbjorn was quiet now, taking a moment to collect himself before he shared the news of Celene’s engagement. Did he not approve, she wondered? It mattered little now. If Arnbjorn had truly cared about who she married, he would have never declared himself to Myradin. The heiress knew it wasn’t fair of her, but she wanted to hate the woman. Yet, Myradin had always made it impossible. She was kinder to Celene, kinder than what she knew she deserved.  
“A marriage of any sort would not be advantageous for your family. You will be marrying beneath your status.” Arnbjorn began.  
“We always knew that. The only reason why Cedrick had yet to be engaged was because of this fact. Now it seems we have little time to wait for an advantageous union.” Celene interjected, knowing she was being crueler than she ought to be. She wanted to be kind, to reach out and take Arnbjorn’s hand knowing full well that he was the one soul in this world who would understand her agony. Instead, she used her arm to lean against the balcony railing, allowing the wind to ruin her tightly contained waves. “So, what did father decide?”  
“A marriage to someone supported by the people would be best at this time. The dynasty is about to be handed over to a new family, a new legacy. Without the people’s support, it will fail and the Lywenharts will truly be lost.” Arnbjorn replied, taking a moment to adjust the bobbles of his cuff links before making his next statement. “You shall be wed to Lucius Bayard by the end of the week.”  
“Bayard?” Celene exclaimed “The general? He’s not even of noble descent. There would be nothing to gain from entering this union. We would have to fund his entire rule.”  
“Yes, however, the people look up to him.” Replied Arnbjorn. “He fought valiantly against the elven uprisings along the borders.”  
“The elves began to rebel because their villages were being sold to slavers. There was nothing heroic about it.”  
“Not to the villages who were being pillaged by the tribes.” Arnbjorn stated, remaining neutral on the topic. Celene knew exactly why, although she didn’t understand why he was still wearing his mask around her. She knew that he and her father had argued bitterly about the matter. The advisor had tried to argue on the elves behalf and was only able to strike a deal for their tribes to remain on noble lands if they paid tribute to the dukes controlling the valleys. “The point is that he has the people’s support.”  
“I suppose it hardly matters what I think anyways.” Celene whispered “So, I am to be married by the end of the week.”  
“Yes.’ Arnbjorn was like stone. So, he didn’t approve, Celene realized. Part of her wondered if he truly wanted to marry Myradin, or if he had simply been pressured to take on an acceptable bride. Maybe, just maybe he had felt the same. But the heiress could not entertain the thought. She was engaged now, and she was to become a Queen of Erelyi. She no longer belonged to herself: She belonged to the people.  
“Well then, let me meet my future husband.”


	2. Chapter One

25 Years Later…

Winter was quickly approaching across the valleys of Erelyi. Summer had disappeared under the vast colors of a brief autumn, but snow now blanketed the landscape. The lakes and rivers had yet to freeze over, and many birds were on their way to the warmer eastern lands of Erindelle. Still, the chill was enough to make young Illia cling to the fabrics of her white satin cloak. However, it was difficult to stay warm and comfortable with the carriage buckling as it hit every bump in the road. She was unsure how her father remained so stiff and unmoving. His silver streaked hair did not have a strand out of place, although it was clear he would need to shave soon.  
It was two days travel from the Topal Bay to Goldenarch Keep. Being stuck in the carriage had made Illia restless. She was desperate to move and to stretch her legs, although she had hoped to do it at home instead of at the Solstice Ball. However, her father had made it clear that her presence was necessary in upholding their family’s public image. It had taken all of her restraint not to argue.  
The girl tried to focus on the fact that she was one of the luckier noble girls in the kingdom. With her family’s lineage tied with that of the Vales, she was granted more freedoms. Her father had made sure she had been properly trained to use a bow and basic hand to hand combat. That was more than most women who had spent most of their days sewing or learning to play the harp. Arnbjorn Stormborn had scoffed at the idea of his daughter wasting her time strumming strings that would do her no good in defending herself against a man or a woman. However, he had taken her studies in history, the common tongue, the Elvish languages, and religion very seriously. Most would have considered her to be most unfortunate considering she spent more of her time among the pages of books instead of around other noble born aristocrats. Illia counted herself among the luckiest of young girls. She had little time to waste on gossiping snobs and skirt chasers.  
“You look beautiful.” Her father said suddenly, disrupting her thoughts. She was grateful though for the comment considering she had just enough time to catch herself as their coachman Leif jolted the carriage once more. “Gods be damned, Leif, must you hit every hole you come across?”  
Illia laughed quietly, knowing full well that Leif was bound to banter with her father about his driving. They would squabble with Leif making the clear point that if her father truly wanted to avoid the holes that he ought to drive the carriage himself. Thinking quickly, Arnbjorn would retort with some kind of insinuation about Leif’s manhood to which the old man would huff and puff before bursting out in a bellowing laugh.  
“I’m sorry, my dear.” Her father replied, although he was unable to reign in his smile. “You do look lovely though, just like your mother.”  
Just like her mother…. this was a phrase Illia had heard all too often. Everyone in the kingdom was quick to compare her features to Myradin’s. They both shared the same ebony locks and frost colored eyes that were rare among the women of the Vales. Illia sometimes wished she hadn’t taken on so many of her mother’s features. It brought too much unwanted attention.  
She had tried dressing plainly for that very reason, wearing a simple white gown with no embellishments. The only jewelry she wore was a silver necklace which hung just above her naval with her family crest inscribed in a blue stone. Her hair was been neatly tucked away in a fishtail braid, leaving her bare face presented with no rouge or blush. Still, it seemed that she was bound to bring in more unnecessary attention.  
“How much longer until we arrive in the capital?” Illia asked, trying to maintain small talk with her father. The tension in the air could be cut through with a knife, but she was doing the best she could to ignore it. Even Arnbjorn seemed uneasy, but it was easier for him to maintain his composure.  
Her father had always been tall and looming as if he were a mountain. There was something comforting in knowing that he would never change. Other times though…  
“I wouldn’t expect much longer. We should arrive just before sundown.” Arnbjorn replied shortly, although not unkindly. “Was there anyone in particular who you were hoping to see?”  
“I had hoped to spend time with Lady Elena. It’s been too long since I’ve last seen her.” Illia’s answer was met with harsh snort from her father. Arnbjorn was not a cruel man, but he valued reputation and rules. To him, guidelines and formalities made life easier to follow and to understand.  
Lady Elena Da Vici, or the Baroness of Direwood had managed to break all of those rules. Originally a chambermaid for the late Igar Da Vici, she had seduced the baron one night after he has consumed too much brandy. Shortly after, she conceived a son, and was quickly married to Igar so their child would become his heir. Shortly after Nicolai was born, Igar passed away from choking on a chicken bone. Elena became the heiress and regent of his estate and would maintain it until Nicolai became sixteen. It was quite the scandal. Arnbjorn never saw honor among the entire ordeal and thought little of the baroness. In his eyes, she was nothing but a common whore whose back happened to fall on fortune’s side.  
“I know you don’t care much for her, father, but she and I have wonderful conversations. Plus, she’s been setting the foundations for all the latest fashions. I rather enjoy her gowns.” Stated Illia, trying to remain composed.  
“Half the kingdom has seen her skirts.” Arnbjorn judged thoroughly in his usual gruff tone. His hand pushed aside the window curtain of the carriage so he could examine the outside snow and trees. Before she knew, Illia felt her blood boil.  
“Perhaps if a woman was valued the same as a man, she wouldn’t have to resort to lying on her back in order to gain any sort of station.”  
“Hush!” Arnbjorn scolded, allowing the curtain to fall once more. “A woman doesn’t have to resort to being a common whore in order to gain standing.”  
“Because arranged marriages are not another form of prostitution.” The words had escaped her lips before Illia could stop herself. She ducked her head in shame, knowing full well it wouldn’t change that she had finally said it. Arnbjorn looked simultaneously ashamed and defensive, but quickly put on the mask she was used to seeing him wear.  
“Illia,” he said cautiously “We talked about this.”  
“No, you talked. I was given orders.” Illia replied more harshly than she normally would. Every part of her wanted to hate Arnbjorn for what he was doing. Still…he was her father. Understanding why he was pushing this decision was simple. An advantageous marriage would provide not only their family with wealth but secure them to the throne forever. Of course, this wasn’t his main reason.  
“Our family must do our part in this arrangement. It is your duty to aid not only our kin, but the Vales as well. The Vales must always come first.” Arnbjorn seemed lost in his thoughts gazing once more out the window. For a split second, he appeared ancient; the thick lines of his brow were more predominant and deeper. Even the white streaks throughout his gold hair were more visible. “If you had remained in the Vales, I imagine you would be more rebellious than what you are now. Every woman in Erelyi scrutinizes your muddy skirts and sharp tongue. I have given you what freedom is mine to give. You will follow through with this marriage.”  
“Surely there are other marriages to benefit the Vales.” It was a statement of fact which Illia knew would fall on deaf ears. Of course, Arnbjorn could not and would not change his mind. Their family needed this marriage.  
“If only.” A sharp lurch of the carriage disrupted their conversation once more, although this time Leif had managed to cause the king’s advisor to hit his head against the roof. “Blasted Leif! I ought to gut you and feed your innards to my dogs!”  
“I didn’t know you liked the taste of elves, sir!”  
Illia laughed. Her father had adored Leif for as long as she could remember. He had even gone so far as to build a small cottage on their estate to ensure he and his family would have a home. So long as the Stormborns remained in ownership of the Topal Bay, Leif’s family would have a home. It was a promise the elf would never forget.  
Beside himself, Arnbjorn laughed boisterously. His friend always knew how to shut him up with his sharp tongue. Arnbjorn’s gray-blue eyes fell solemnly upon Illia once more; her smile both filling him with joy and sorrow.  
“Illia…” he began but fell silent once more. She thought she heard him curse underneath his breath. The girl had never known her father to not have the words, but she supposed there was a first for everything. “You do look beautiful.”  
Beautiful…after hearing that word over and over, she was sure that she detested it. 

The capital was massive, bigger than any other city in the country. Stalhold was home to many in Erelyi. Originally, the kingdom had began as just a small city surrounding Goldenarch Keep until its population began to spring. Districts began to form, starting with Slaver’s Alley where many of the city’s servants and vagrants resided. As more traveler’s began to visit, districts such as the Traveler’s Nest began to develop until more permanent residences began to form in the Southern Quarters and the High District. However, Goldenarch Keep remained the epicenter of Stalhold, and as such markets surrounded the roads outside of the castle’s walls.  
After spending so much time in the secluded lands of the Topal Bay, Illia was relieved to be in the city. She loved being out in the country, but the city was wild and filled with adventure. The last time she had been there, she and Lady Elena had spent the entire morning walking about the streets and markets until evening fell. Instead of returning to their inn, they adventured to Slaver’s Alley, where they danced and drank at the local tavern. Although she was hesitant at first, Illia slowly felt her inhibitions fall to the wayside as she danced along with the customers, and Lady Elena had quickly warmed up to one of the elven harp flute players. It wasn’t before long that they retreated to have a ‘private lesson’. Inebriated and alone, Illia spent the rest of her evening talking to a group of fishermen who told her stories of their brushes with death on the open sea, intimate encounters with sirens, and accumulated riches. She knew the stories were tall tales, but the joy in the men’s eyes as they spoke kept her intrigued and filled with wonder. Part of her had been tempted to ask to voyage with them. But before long, reality returned with along with the morning. She and Elena quickly returned to their inn without awaking her father. Arnbjorn was none the wiser.  
The smell of Stalhold awakened all of her memories from running around in the castle gardens; her mother would often chase her as she caked her skirts in more and more mud. The air was perfumed with the smells of wet dirt, warm bread, fresh ale, and honey. It was invigorating, sending a wave of goosebumps across her pale arms. However, she wouldn’t be able to remain in the Traveler’s Nest for long. Not too long after their items were unpacked at the inn, Illia and Arnbjorn found themselves back in the dark carriage seats on their way to Goldenarch Keep.

None of the other castles in the kingdom could begin to rival Goldenarch Keep. The fortress resided in the center of the market districts with twelve-foot, cobblestone walls surrounding its doorstep. The gates opened to lush gardens, flourishing with red, blue, yellow, and purple flowers. Ivy crawled up the beige stone of the keep, almost wild in nature, but obviously maintained by the castle’s servants. On either side, Illia would have heard the sound of water splashing and flowing from the enormous fountains that resided within the gardens. As a child, she had spent much of her time reading amongst the fountains and statues. The scent of roses and honeysuckle seemed to always cling to her skin. If her Keeper would have allowed it, she would have remained there for hours. However, her lessons always needed her attention.  
However, Goldenarch Keep was not blooming that evening. Snow blanketed the fountains and flowers. The trees were heavy with ice, almost saddened by the loss of the endless summer blooms. Then again, she was sure that even the trees knew that change was always a necessity. Statues of the gods were looming throughout the garden, finally visible with the vegetation being long since dead. However, it was almost a certainty that the snow would melt within the month and the flowers would bloom once more.  
Inside the keep, the stone walls were lavished in audacious décor. Armor, murals, portraits, and candles covered almost every inch of the castle walls. However, nothing was as detailed as the stained glass which colored every window in a rainbow of color. Each image in the glass depicted one of the Seven; the gods and goddesses of Erelyi. Devia was the goddess of fertility and the patron of virgins. She expected absolute purity from every bride on her wedding night, and every one of her priestesses. Hob, the god of war, could be seen standing in victory over his great enemy the Serpent. Eliom was the god of the harvest and was often shown in images next to his sister, Devia. Wayriah was the goddess of love and blessed any flourishing couple who she deemed worthy: Illia often saw many of the noble girls staring up at her image in wonder. Kai-Hirum was the patron of knowledge which explained why most of his images were found among many monasteries and libraries. However, none of these gods stood in comparison to Xander and Zelena who were the creators of all life: the god of life and the goddess of death. Many were quick to pay heed to Zelena who was cold and quick tempered.  
However, Illia paid little attention to the gods of Erelyi. No—her mother and father had raised her to believe in the Gods of Old. The Old Gods roamed the earth before the time of the elves, forming the great mountains of the Vales, the mighty seas, and the plains and islands of Erelyi. It was said that Atria was first among them to roam earth, creating them until one day she fell in love with a star. Through her love, the star took shape into the form of Cetrium who then created the world of man, creating men and elves to serve as children for he and Atria. However, another grew enraged in his lust for power. Setrius, the brother of Atria, had grown enraged that his sister chose to give her heart to a star instead of himself. And so, he plagued her children with death. Heartbroken, Atria tried to break the curse, but was unable. Cetrium knew there would only be one way to break the curse: dark magic. Sacrificing himself, he entrapped Setrius in a prison beneath the sea. He was able to stay the curse of death, but only for a time. However, it would not be the end. All children of the Mother Goddess would be reunited with her as stars in death.  
Illia wasn’t sure though if she actually believed in the Old Gods or the Seven. She believed in something but wasn’t quite sure what it was. Still, she was sure to pay homage to all the gods, both old and new, in order to maintain appearances for her father.  
She continued to climb the red stone steps of the keep’ hall until she could hear the familiar hymns of the Sepulcher’s Chorus. It was strange how easy it was to pick out each individual sound of the strings: Violin, cello, bass, piano, harps. It was also simple enough to pick out the sound of Elena’s voice calling for her from the ballroom.  
Elena was as gorgeous as ever. Her thick, fiery hair was rebelliously flowing in a variety of braids and curls which effortlessly framed her heart shaped face. The baroness was easily the palest woman in Edinber, although it was not due to her heritage like Illia. She appeared even more washed out by the color of her royal purple gown. Her arms unfurled like an eagle, entrapping Illia in an overzealous hug.  
“My dear girl, you’ve returned to me at last.” She smelled exactly as Illia had remembered; like fine wine made of the sweetest of elderberries and vanilla. Elena finally released her vice grip, moving slowly away, although she continued to rest her hand on Illia’s arm. “Dressed head to toe in white? Are you trying to appear as the perfect bride?”  
“It’s the closest these men will ever come to seeing me as such.” Illia replied with a crooked smile. “How have you been fairing? And Nic, is he well?”  
“He’s the spriest toddler you would ever have the honor to meet. I do believe he took more after me than his father.” Elena said, releasing her black fan and waving it across her face. Even in the middle of winter, Goldenarch Keep remained as warm as the summer sun. “Igar never was a man who intended to exert any effort. He laid there like a limp fish when Nikolai was conceived.”  
“Elena!”  
“Don’t be such a prude, Illia.” There it was again: Elena’s beautiful smile which seemed to entrap any man she desired. “I do pity my son if he did take after me. The amount of skirts that will be thrown at him could be too much to bear.”

“Lady Elena,” Illia’s father reappeared as quickly as he had disappeared. Elena’s pixie nose twitched slightly as it always had when Arnbjorn appeared. However, the baroness could never hate the lord no matter how hard she tried. Unlike every other noble man in court, he treated her with respect despite his dislike of her. The advisor took a gentle grasp of her hand, his lips barely grazing over her fingers before she returned the favor with a curtsey. “I’m glad to see you are looking well. However, the King requests my daughter’s presence in the ball room. If you could excuse us.”  
“Of course, m’lord.” Elena replied, putting on the face of a baroness. “Come and find me again once your business has been attended to, my friend.” With a final embrace, Elena left to join another group of young noblemen who were sure to fall under her spell.  
Illia was certain though that Elena would never settle down. She would lose control of her lands, control of her household, and control of her wealth. No- she would raise her son to love her as she fiercely loved him until he was old enough to keep her attended to. She may have lost her reputation, but Elena had the one thing Illia would cherish: her freedom.  
“Come, Illia.” Arnbjorn disrupted Illia’s thoughts once more. With a moment of hesitation, she linked her arm with her father’s and followed him to the ballroom. 

Golden floors…the ballroom was the reason Goldenarch Keep had received its namesake. The walls were barren, painted in the starkest color of white Illia had ever seen. Candelabras lit the room, but most of the light shined through the stained-glass windows which stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Violins and harps played a soft tune which echoed throughout the room. Women’s dresses twirled in an elaborate display of color: reds, blues, greens, yellows, purples. If she had not grown so used to the sight of elaborate parties, Illia was certain that she would have been awe-struck. However, her eyes shifted to an unfamiliar sight.  
Two men with stark black hair were speaking on the opposite end of the ballroom. The shorter gentleman was older. In fact, he seemed older than her father by several years. How could his hair remain so ungrayed? The taller gentleman was young, similar to her in age. His sun-kissed skin was as smooth as butter, although he did have tightly kept facial hair. Yet, the most startling feature of the lean figure was his eyes. The color of amethyst, Illia was certain he was watching her from across the ballroom.  
“Father, who are those men?” Illia whispered as she hid her face behind her father’s arm. “I’ve never seen them before.”  
“Act as though you never saw them.” Arnbjorn replied, his eyes focused in the opposite direction of the men. “Those men are Victor and Sebastian Arkhyle. They are the disgraced cousins of the queen.”  
“I had thought Victor had only two children.”  
“He did. Amelia Arkhyle died some years before Queen Celene. His heir though…”  
“Wesley Arkhyle.” It was a name which was almost never spoken aloud. In fact, the name Arkhyle had almost been struck clean from the history books. The incestual affair between Celene Lywenhart and her cousin Wesley Arkhyle had almost caused a civil war among the nation. The Arkhyles had only been allowed to remain in royalty in order to prevent unrest. “Then who is this Sebastian?”  
“The heir’s son.”  
So, Wesley had children? Illia had very few memories of the queen before she was executed by her husband. Celene had been beautiful with flowing white hair that reached past the small of her back. Like the Arkhyles, she carried the same amethyst eyes as the others in her family. Perhaps it was her beauty that caused her father to believe she was innocent of her crime. However, beauty was only a guise, and Illia couldn’t help but wonder if Celene had betrayed her family. Which made her wonder even more about the woman; how could she be so cruel as to steal a man from his family, and leave her sons without a mother?

“Your Majesty.” Arnbjorn’s greeting quickly sent Illia into a curtsy. She had been so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized she was already standing before King Lucius and his son, Aarion. Lucius looked as though he would have been handsome in his youth, however, his dishwater blond hair grew more and more gray strands with each passing day. He still had a strong square jaw although it was covered with a light amount of stubble. Even in his age, Lucius stood the same as a proud soldier. The king was only a hair shorter than her father, although he did not have the Vales flowing through his veins.  
His eldest son, Aarion, however, was closer to Illia’s height. He was lean with nearly gaunt features unlike the muscular build of his father. His cheek bones were sharp and wide until they narrowed to the sharp point of his chin. He might have been considered handsome by many of the women in court if it were not for his cold green eyes. On more than one occasion those hooded serpent irises would watch the young women from afar as they chose their next prey. This time, his eyes were set on Illia. The middle son, Morlek, had taken on more of his father’s traits. The same hair and eye color, but he had inherited Lucius’ square jawline. Only the youngest, Antony, had taken on any of his mother’s traits.  
“Your Majesty.” Illia whispered, her eyes fixated on the prince than her king. For the first time in her life, Illia wished to be like the other woman on the dance floor; completely oblivious to the world around her. “It’s a pleasure to see my king and my prince in such good health. How has Stalhold faired this winter?”  
“A passing cold wind as always.” Lucius replied with a gracious smile before turning towards her father. “My word, Arnbjorn. Your daughter grows more radiant with each passing year. In my younger days, I surely would have claimed her.”  
“You’re too kind, your Majesty.” Arnbjorn said, “I would hope though that my daughter would be wise enough to not fall for your pretty words without an offer of marriage.” Lucius laughed boisterously at the thought, stroking his facial hair with his enormous hands.  
“I have no doubt. Speaking of marriage, I wish to discuss the matter you mentioned some months ago.” Lucius replied, motioning for Arnbjorn to follow him, leaving Aarion and Illia alone.

“You do look beautiful tonight.” His smile was tight and smug, fully aware of how his father was arranging his future marriage. He inched closer, his tall gaze looming over her. “You’re the stunning snowflake among all the flowers.”  
“Thank you, m’lord.” Illia spoke the script which had been implanted in her since she was little girl. ‘Always thank them with a demure tone as to not sound arrogant. Humble and pure, be sure to smile but not meet their eyes. Always the shining spectacle of grace and elegance, never dawdle but join in polite conversation.’ It was as easy as breathing at this point in her life. “Do you prefer this time of year, m’lord?”  
“A season where women are forced to hide themselves under more layers. It’s hardly my cup of tea.” Despite its historically patriarchal hierarchy, the women in Erelyi were some of the most freely dressed woman in the empire. Although women in Erindelle were notorious for their short skirts, women in Erelyi were almost always seen in colorful gowns made of thin chiffon. Deep cuts were intricately made to expose the back, cleavage, and arms. Illia had loved the fact her skin was never confined in Erelyi. She would imagine having to wear heavy fabric with long sleeves would be miserable with how hot their country was. “My dear, you are wasted as a wall flower. Would you care to join me in a dance?”  
“Yes, m’lord.” The same scripted response escaped her lips. Before she could take another breath, Illia felt her entire body being dragged to the dance floor by her hand. A swirl of colors flashed around her before she found herself staring directly into the serpent’s eyes. His hand pressed roughly against the small of her back, being set too low for her comfort while his other was intertwined with her other palm. She rested her left hand on his shoulder and felt herself be pulled in a twirl, ebbing and flowing with the rest of the dancers. Her feet moved in the steps she had learned to dance since she was a child, something she was now grateful for as she tried to avoid looking into Aarion’s gaze.  
“You do look radiant tonight, Illia.” Aarion whispered in her ear, his breath on her skin. Instinctively, she bit her tongue as to not to immediately reject his advances. It would be foolish to insult the manhood of the future king.  
“Thank you, m’lord.”  
“Please, I would have you call me Aarion.” Familiarity, a privilege only granted to the most intimate of friends among royals. Illia was certain she wished to avoid such intimacy.  
“Of course, m’lord.” She carefully replied, although she was certain that Aarion cared little as to who overheard their conversation. “I’m hardly worthy of the privilege.”  
“On the contrary. I would make you worthy.” Another spin left Illia breathless and dizzy. She desired nothing more than to be as far away from this music as possible, but knew she was trapped in his iron grasp. There would be no escaping him this time. “Everyone knows that you are the rose hidden among this ghastly group of thorns. No other man here in worthy of you.”  
“I’m speechless, m’lord.” She truly was. Never had Aarion ever made his intentions so boldly known. Most of the time, she had been able to escape around a corner after some brief conversation which left the hair on her arms on end.  
“Aarion.”  
“Aarion-I hadn’t-“  
“Hush, words do not suite you.” Aarion continued placing his index finger to Illia’s lips. They stopped in shock as the words continued to pour from his dreadful lips. “I would see you in my chambers tonight.”  
“Tonight?” Illia was maddened with rage but felt the need for her mask to remain firmly in place. Despite herself, she plastered another smile to mask her anger.  
“Of course, I can hardly be expected to wait.”  
“I’m sorry, m’lord but I must decline. Any offer of that inclination would be done through marriage which is to be held in the capable hands of my father. I would never smudge your reputation by giving myself to you before our wedding night.” Illia tightly replied, quick to make a curtsey as she prepared to rush away to another side of the ballroom. “If I were to be wed to you, my kind and powerful lord, I would give my body to you the same night as my soul. Good day.”

With her final goodbye, Illia took her escape and rushed to a darkened corner of the ballroom. Darting down a hallway, she found herself completely encased in shadows with only a single candelabra to light her way. Her chest heaved as she felt a bead of sweat fall between her breasts. She wasn’t sure if it was the dancing or simply the way he had been so bold, but she felt as though she might faint. Was this really the life she was forced to live?  
Fighting back tears, she tried to picture herself within the gardens of her home. She had spent so much time reading and writing, picturing the various twists and turns of her future life. More than anything, she had longed to see mountains, to travel across the seas, to adventure wild forests, and to explore ancient ruins. In the rolling plains and deserts of Erelyi she was certain she would never know of these things in her youth. Now, she wasn’t sure if she ever would.  
Pressing her hand to her stomach, she looked around the narrow archway to find that Aarion had disappeared among the crowds of politicians and their wives. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the darkness once more, knowing that she was at his mercy if she stepped into the light. Part of her wondered if it was possible for her to remain there forever. But Arnbjorn would soon search for her, remind her of her duties, and send her back into the lion’s den. Wiping away the tears which had managed to slither done the pale plains of her cheeks, she inhaled deeply, willing her mind to be still.

“My word that was a disgusting display.” A voice broke the silence causing Illia to gasp with fright. A bolt of frost shot up her spine as she pressed her back further against the wall. Emerging from the shadows, a familiar black figured approached her. His violet eyes were soft, almost playful. His lips remained in a sly smile, and he smelled of amber and sandalwood. “I don’t know what was worse; picturing that detestable troll naked, or your pretending that you were actually flattered.”  
Sebastian Arkhyle was even more dashing up close than he had been from afar. It was no surprise; anyone associated with the Lywenharts was incredibly beautiful. The Arkhyles seemed to carry the air of mystery which intoxicated most young women. Even Illia had to admit that she was intrigued. Still, she had a role to play.  
“It’s impolite to eavesdrop.”  
“The conversation was hard to ignore, considering he was shouting it halfway across the ballroom.” Sebastian leaned against the wall; his arm lightly pressed against hers. He was warm, warmer than he ought to be. “You’re right though. I’m the rude one. Proposing a private dance in the prince’s chambers is one of the highest compliments a lady of your station could ever receive.”  
Heat flooded Illia’s chest making her heart flutter in anger and her hands tremble with rage. In a moment, her cool mask melted away to reveal her temper.  
“I never said I was flattered by being treated as a common whore!”  
“So, she does have some bite.” Sebastian coolly replied. “And here I feared that you would be as boring as any other common noble girl.” Heat rushed to Illia’s cheeks as her temper continued to grow. All the techniques she had learned as a little girl seemed to be escaping her. She knew she ought to bite her tongue; even if the Arkhyles were outcasts, they were still noble, still related to the crown. But what may be worse was if she was discovered speaking with him. She had to leave before she ruined more of her father’s reputation.  
“How glad am I to have exceeded your expectations. Now if you will excuse me.” Illia was seething as she lifted her skirt to move back into the light of the ballroom. She was certain she was drawing unwanted attention to herself as she fled from the Arkhyle’s heir, but she couldn’t find the energy to care: it was better to be seen avoiding him than to be seen speaking with him. Her eyes darted across the golden floor, searching for anyone whom she could easily blend with once again. However, her shadow was quick to return, and quite loudly.  
“Wait!” His footsteps clamored across the stone floor. He clearly had no intention of remaining within the bounds of what was proper, not that it mattered. There was some freedom in your family already being considered the scourge of nobility. Against her better judgement, Illia froze and turned to face Sebastian once again. “I do apologize, Lady Stormborn. I truly meant no offense. I’m surprised you’re talking to me at all, let alone bantering with me.”  
Eyes were focused on their conversation. Whispering of their names passed over so many lips in so little time, Illia was sure she would lose her reputation for good. Yet, as she looked into his sad, violet eyes, Illia was struck with pity. How hard must it have been to be raised as an outcast among your family for your father’s mistakes?  
“I’m no good at these sort of events, nor do I have any experience in speaking to a woman of your stature.” Sebastian continued, “I’ve been an ass. Perhaps we could start over?”  
Illia’s eyes peered around, meeting the stares of the forming crowds. Gods, they were all like clucking hens. She was torn; if she continued to speak to the outcast, it would reflect poorly on her father. Arnbjorn had spent years building his reputation among the nobles; it had been difficult enough to convince people to see past his origins as one of the Vales. On the other hand, she had grown weary of calculating every move, wondering which one would destroy her family’s power and control. Once…just one last time, she wished to experience the feeling she had experienced at the tavern all those years ago. She longed to live outside her lineage, her ego. And perhaps, Sebastian desired the same. “You say you have no experience at these kind of gatherings?”  
“I’m a bumbling idiot of the highest order.” Illia chuckled at his honesty, her shoulders softening as she pondered her next idea.  
“Then perhaps you could start by asking me to dance.” The girl replied slyly, “Or is that outside your area of expertise?”  
“On the contrary,” Sebastian grinned from ear to ear. “I’m very well versed.”

The perfect gentleman, Sebastian bowed before his potential partner as he offered her his hand. The noble girl moved to reach for him but paused. If she chose to dance with this man, she risked her entire family, everything her father had been working towards for years. Was it worth it? Perhaps not, but despite her fears, her hand was encompassed by the warmth of his palm as he led her towards the dance floor.  
The tune was a familiar one, one of Illia’s favorites. The dark, enchanting notes would move as softly as a wave on the coast. First it would sway before it would recede to its familiar deep note. As if in tune with the surgency of the piano’s black keys, Sebastian’s arm firmly gripped Illia’s waist. Drawing her nearer, Illia could feel the pounding of his heart against her chest. As she rested her arm on his shoulder, she was swept away in a simple spin. Quick in his step, Sebastian guided them as the tempo increased.  
“So, tell me, Lord Arkhyle, if you believe no one will speak to you and you hate parties, why do you come with your grandfather to such events?” The forward question was one Illia had been wondering all night. She was welcomed at these events, and even she loathed attending them. It was hard to imagine Sebastian would enjoy coming to a ball where he would be labeled as an outcast by every person in the room.  
“What a curious question.” Sebastian replied with a Cheshire grin. He led her apart for a moment to spin her. Her back pressed against his chest, flooding her with warmth. She had never danced so intimately with a man before. Yet, it filled her with a rush. Within a few moments, the heat left her as she was once again turned to face him directly. “I suppose the answer would be that I enjoy causing a scandal.”  
“A scandal?”  
“Oh yes, they’re all the rage.” He quipped as he spun her once again. “Take what’s happening right now for an example. The most beautiful woman in court dancing with the heir to the disgraced family.”  
“I can imagine the gossip.” Illia found herself really smiling for the first time all night. It was fun to tease, to not play coy for a gentleman who clearly desired more than idle conversation. Sebastian’s good humor made it easy to relax and to poke fun. If she had not been so feverish with emotion in the hidden corridor, she might have found his sarcasm more enduring. “It would be a crisis, so obscene.”  
“Perhaps we should give them more to whisper about?” Sebastian was teasing but serious in his question. Illia felt a pang in her chest, a reminder that she was supposed to be lady. For all intents and purposes, she was not supposed to belong to herself but her family. If she continued, she was sure to ruin everything her father was working towards. And yet, the challenge was intoxicating.  
“What would you suggest?” The question fell from her lips, ignoring all consequences that were sure to come her way. She hadn’t consciously decided to accept his challenge, but her heart had chosen for her. Rebellion…it was possessive in a way where she had little willpower.  
Without a reply, Illia felt a rush of movement follow by the sound of a breaking violin note. Colors blurred before her eyes as she found herself fully in Sebastian’s firm gasp, holding her in way where she was unsteady and completely in his control. Her shoulders hovered above the golden floors as he deepened the dip. However, his face drew nearer to hers, his breath warm against her skin. For a moment, she feared he intended to kiss her. Instead, his lips moved to the side of her cheek and until they lingered near her ear.  
“Tell me, what do you believe will enrage the prince more…” His whisper sent chills down her spin and for a split moment she was grateful only she could hear his words. “…that I was the one who was first to sweep you off your feet, or your father’s plan to marry you off to the usurper?”  
Illia’s expression turned to stone. All breath escaped her lungs as her heart began to pound. He knew…. how could he know? They had been so careful. No one was to know. This was to be her last event…the last public spectacle in order to keep appearance before she would sail across the Great Sea to the Vales. How? How did he know?  
Sebastian slowly moved her, so she was standing straight once more. They continued within the pleasant motions of the song, careful to not draw even more attention to themselves although Illia was certain all eyes were fixated on her. Her mask once again encompassed her features, pretending that panic was not taking over her entire body. It was certain that he could feel the tremble of her fingers, the dampness of her palms.  
“Fear not, my dear lady. I am not your enemy.” Sebastian warmly replied, his voice still so low so that no one would hear. “I imagine it’s difficult. You have no choice in being labeled as a traitor. It is your father’s will and you are surely to suffer for it. The Vales may run in your blood, but it is a foreign land. You’ll be a stranger to your own home, a stranger to your husband.”  
“How?” Illia’s voice cracked as she pushed out a hushed whisper. She couldn’t believe he would reveal knowledge of their plot to her if he did not seek to further his own ends. Did he mean to threaten her? Did he seek to rid the council of her father so he could restore his house’s own seat? What did he seek to gain? All men seek to gain something. “How did you- “  
“A plot to remove the man who murdered my aunt and father: m’lady, do you truly believe I would be ignorant of such a thing?” Sebastian replied, his voice still low in her ear. “Trust and know that your secret is safe with me, sweet Illia. I desire nothing more than see your father’s goal carried out.”  
The final note echoed and Illia realized they had stopped moving. Sebastian motioned for her to curtsey, which she followed out of habit. Taking her hand, he deeply pressed his warm lips against her cold fingers.  
“Until we meet again, my dear Illia.”

Everything in the room was spinning. Her feet firmly glued to the ground, Illia thought she would have remained in the center of the ballroom had it not been for Elena firmly grasping her hand. The crowds whipped around her in a blur as she was pulled once more into the dark corridor with Elena quickly whispering at her ear.  
“My word, Illia!” she chastised “At this rate, your reputation will rival my own.”  
They paused so they would still remain in sight. If Elena was anything, she was surely intelligent. The woman was a master at deception. If they were to hide completely in the shadows, the dance would have appeared more serious. Illia’s emotions would have been called into question. Giving them privacy, but not hiding appeared less condemning.  
“I will admit he is handsome.” Elena continued “But I would hardly risk being infected by magic for a pretty face.”  
“Magic?” That comment had startled Illia out of her daze. Was Sebastian a mage? “I thought the Arkhyles had been cast aside because of Celene?”  
“They were cast out long before then.” Elena explained, knowing full well Illia was too young to recall the family’s history. “They were disowned because of Thadius Arkhyles’s dabbling of elves several decades ago. It allowed magic to appear in their blood, and they kept it hidden when Tiberius Arkhyle was married off to Celene’s great aunt. By then, it was too late, and magic had mixed in the bloodline of the Lywenhart’s. Luckily, her grandfather was already set to ascend to the throne.”  
“He cast out his own sister for magic?”  
“And for dabbling with elves.” Elena replied “Such a shame, the Arkhyle men are so handsome. But I suppose you Valemen have little prejudice against such things. Don’t your people dance naked under the moonlight as they sacrifice their firstborn?”  
‘Elena, if such things were true, how would I be here?” Illia had heard such rumors before. It was true that the Vales’ welcomed magic in all forms, but they still hated the elves as much as the rest of Edinber. “Poor Sebastian. He’s been disowned for the sins of his great grandfather and then his father.”  
“Oh please. Everyone knows Lucius killed Celene because she had the love and support of the people.” Elena waved her hand about as if to swat Illia’s words out of the air. “Although, I do wonder about Antony. With hair as black as his, who is to say Wesley was not sticking it to the old girl?”  
“Elena!”  
“What?” the fiery baroness questioned, her eyes filled with complete ignorance of how disrespectful her words were to the late queen. “Lucius does appear to be the type who would whore about. Why shouldn’t have Celene had her own fun? Her only mistake was that she was caught. Besides, we have Antony because of it.” 

Antony…Illia had almost forgotten about the Bayard’s youngest son. He was a year or so younger than her with sad lavender eyes and thin legs. They had spent much of their youth playing together; he was the only Bayard she considered a friend. He had always had such a shy demeanor, constantly avoiding his older brothers. Aarion and Setius had ruthlessly bullied him, referring to him as a bastard although Lucius had claimed him as his son. Illia had always wondered why he had done so. Perhaps Lucius’ pride stopped him from believing that any other man could have caused his wife to conceive.  
“A pity you’re bound to become engaged to Aarion.” Elena continued to chatter her opinion. It was not her most appealing trait, but Illia appreciated it all the same. Sometimes it was just easier to listen than to have to converse. “Antony has always doted on you.”  
“Antony and I are just friends.”  
“Does he know that?” Illia’s scowl was met with an exaggerated eye roll. “Fine, ruin all my fun then.”  
“Your fun?”  
“Of course!” Elena’s stance grew more defensive as if she had climbed in front of some podium to rebuttal any of Illia’s past, present, and future remarks. “Gossip may be condemned by the holy community. However, knowledge is power. Rumors destroy kingdoms, destroy bloodlines; look what happened to Celene. You ought to follow my example and gather everything you can.”  
Illia pondered Elena’s words. She wanted to disagree, to present some sort of retort, but her tongue was tied. The baroness was right: a rumor had the power to destroy a monarch. Celene and the Arkhyles had been stripped of all power because of them. In the world of court, your reputation could mean your life. It was why her father had pushed her so much to remain as a lady, to play coy and demure as to seal their family’s security. It was important so they could survive after the coup, and she had just risked it all for a pitiful dance. Shame overwhelmed her. Elena, however, was oblivious to her friend’s fears.  
“So, will you be staying in the capital for long?”  
“No, my father has business to attend to at home. I will be returning to the Topal Bay tomorrow morning.”  
“That sounds utterly exhausting.” Elena whined. Still, she picked up as smile, grasping her friend’s hands. “Well, we must spend more time together when you come back to town. I do adore you so, Illia. You’re one of the few women here who isn’t a bore!”  
“And I adore you.” Illia replied, her smile masking the tears she was bottling within her chest.  
She wanted to believe she wasn’t another noble girl caught in the game of power and kings. However, her situation claimed otherwise. She was caught like a fly in a web.  



	3. Chapter Two

The morning after the Solstice Ball was buzzing with life. The air was already beginning to grow warmer. The sound of water dripping from frozen icicles echoed through the streets and alleys. Birds had already begun to return to the city, their calls cooing like a song. Spring would return within the week if Illia was to guess. But she would be gone long before then. Dressing in one of her favorite pale blue gowns, she allowed her ebony waves to roam free. She nested in a nook she had created among exotic looking pillows and a bay window. While the servants continued in their clamoring as they packed their luggage, Illia lost herself among the pages of a book: “The Battle of Iron Rock: The Final Stand of Red Myriam the Great”. It was a tale that Antony had recommended to her some time ago, and she was intent on finishing it before she was sent off to the Vales. It was unfortunate that she always grew ill when she tried to read in the carriage. She was just about to finish the second to last chapter when Arnbjorn entered the room.  
“Would you like to get breakfast?” Arnbjorn was dressed in a manner more casual than Illia had remembered in a long time. Wearing beige slacks, and a simple white button up with a vest, Arnbjorn stood in her doorway awaiting her reply. It had been quite some time since they had gone out for breakfast. Her father had normally made some excuse as to why they had to remain at the manor. In truth, she believed he didn’t wish to be away from the place where he had last seen Myradin. It was painful to return to the city where he had been when she passed.   
“I would enjoy doing so.” Illia finally replied, marking her place in her book. “Where would we go?”  
“The little café that has the outdoor eating area that you like.” Was he trying to make her last few days in Erelyi enjoyable? Arnbjorn knew better than anyone that Illia’s favorite place to eat was at The Blue Winged Café. They served a dish topped with that had a biscuit topped with ham and a fried quail egg. The golden sauce was delectable and paired well with a serving of fresh fruit. “I take it you’ll order the Lion’s Morning.”  
“You read my mind!” Illia said “The air has grown warmer. Perhaps we could eat outside?”   
“Whatever you would like.” His smile was warm. Perhaps he was trying to enjoy what little time he had left with her. If he would not change his mind, she supposed it would have to count for something. 

The warm yolk of the quail erupted in a sensation of flavor across Illia’s tongue. The salt of the ham was just enough to peak more of the tangy flavor of the golden sauce. Even the biscuit had the perfect amount of crunch. Illia was so lost in her meal, she could almost forget that this was the last time she would be eating the dish. Coffee was helpful in drowning any potential sorrow that bubbled to the surface.   
Arnbjorn had ordered a simple meal: eggs with ham and coffee. Her father typically didn’t eat much in the morning, preferring to have a grand meal for dinner. Illia didn’t mind though; it meant she always got her pick of the fruit platter. She wasn’t sure how her figured remained so small. Of course, she did have deep hourglass curves, but overall, she was small considering the amount of food she ate. Her handmaiden, Cera had always told her it was because of the amount of walking she did around the gardens. Walking, reading, and occasional training lessons: Illia was sure that was everything to make up her person. That, and now quail eggs.   
The Blue Winged Café was beautiful this time of year. The air was warming so that it was comfortable to not wear a cloak and to eat outside. By the end of the month, Erelyi would return to its blistering heat that kept the crops abundant and the people happy. Still, the brief winter typically killed a lot of the flowers. Somehow, the café managed to keep it’s hanging baskets of red and violet flowers blooming and fragrant. Although the patio was damp from the melting snow and ice, Illia couldn’t have been any happier. The brick streets were filling with people once again as bakers and traders set up tables to sell their goods. The streets of Stalhold would never settle for long.   
“I’ll miss this.” She finally said, her mind absent of worry as she spoke freely around Arnbjorn. “The Vales are cold, are they not?”  
“Our spring is their summer.” He replied, his eyes watching make sure no one could overhear their conversation. “The autumn is brief, but it is my favorite time of the year. The trees change color; the leaves look like rubies, gold, and citrine. Entire valleys are overtaken by their beauty. And the mountains---Illia, you must promise me that you shall look out at the mountains at night. Words cannot describe them.”  
“I promise.” Arnbjorn never spoke of the Vales. Often, Illia had wondered if he had yearned for the chance to abandon his homeland for Erelyi. Maybe that wasn’t the case.   
Originally, the Vales had belonged to no one. Because of how mountainous the islands were, the villages were scattered and typically united under different leaders. Illia’s grandfather aimed to remedy this by forming united families: the Roxenbury’s, the Greywind’s, the Stormborn’s, and the Blackwater’s. Each family ruled over one of the four holds of the Vales: Highreach to the Greywind’s, the Gallows to the Roxenbury’s, the Brumelands to the Blackwaters, and the Great Plains to the Stormborns. Each hold grew stronger as the families became more intertwined. The marriage between Illia’s great aunt Katherine and Edgar Roxenbury had secured a strong alliance between the two families. Their daughter was then wed to Alrek Greywind who birthed him three children, one of them being Gerron.   
It was Illia’s birthright to marry Gerron Greywind. The Great Plains must remain in the hands of the original families. And the original families had to secure Erelyi. There was no going around it. Even if Gerron had not been planning to usurp the throne, Illia would have been wed to him. It was meant to be.   
“I know you’re not happy with this engagement, Illia.” Arnbjorn said unexpectantly. “I failed in my duties as a son. I did not provide a proper male heir. I should have remarried after your mother, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of being with another. I suppose it was a punishment for my proudness. But that punishment is affecting you. I sometimes wonder if I should have never formed such an alliance between the Vales and the Isles. If I ever had, we would have never been in this mess with Lucius.”  
“Father, you had no choice.” It was true. The alliance of the Vales and the Isles had been formed under the threat of an invasion from Erindelle. The Vales would have been conquered in a matter of months. The people were already beginning to starve. Arnbjorn had inherited the Great Plains at the young age of twenty. He had to carry on his father’s legacy and secure the survival of the Vales. The Lywenharts had made a prudent offer which only required the fealty of four families. Against all odds, her father had managed to convince the wild Valemen to submit. She supposed it was ironic for him to now convince them to rebel.  
“There is always a choice, Illia.” He interrupted “I chose to be an unworthy father to you and a poor husband to Myradin. Can you ever forgive me?”  
Forgiveness…in truth, Illia wanted to hate Arnbjorn with all her might. But he was her father. She loved him despite how cold and unmoving he could be. He gave her more freedom than any other girl in Erelyi. To be the daughter of another would be to be the daughter of a lesser man.   
“Of course, I can forgive you.” She finally said. It was painful to say, but it was real. She hoped that she could find happiness with Gerron Greywind. He was her cousin after all. They had to share some things in common. At the very least, he had to be better than Aarion.  
They continued their breakfast in silence for quite some time until the empty space was filled with the call from an unfamiliar stranger. He was an older gentleman with silver hair and thick beard. His dress was that of another noble and he took quick interest in her father. The man approached them, giving a brief nod to Illia before he turned his attention to her father.  
“Lord Stormborn, I believe you wished to discuss something with me.” The strange aristocrat began before Arnbjorn turned his attention back to Illia.   
“Excuse me, I have to deal with this matter.” Arnbjorn began. Illia tried to swallow the regret which was forming in her throat. Just this once, she wished to have a morning alone with her father without the interruption of other nobles and aristocrats.   
“It’s no trouble at all.” Illia turned to the gentleman, her eyes feigning warmth and invitation. “Please take my seat, m’lord. I’m going to venture to the book shop. It’s not often I’m in Stalhold.”  
“Of course.” Arnbjorn replied as Illia stood. With a polite farewell, she left the patio of the café. 

Around the corner from the café was one of the noble girl’s favorite book shops. Thick, dark shelves lined all the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling. The air smelled of old paper and honey. Typically, the old man who ran the shop would have his nose pressed against the pages of a book as he sipped his morning, afternoon, and evening tea. He was one of the few people who paid little mind to Illia’s presence, something which was a welcomed rarity. Drinking in the worn air, Illia allowed her fingers to trace across the leather-bound books. Black, brown, crimson, and navy: her icy eyes lingered over each cover, searching for a title which would catch her interest.   
She wondered if there would be books in the Vales. Well, of course there would be books, but would she find another shop that kept the novels she desperately sought to read. Did they drink tea as though it were fine wine, or did they drink goblets of ale? Would she be just another stranger in a strange land, or could she make it a home? Perhaps she ought to forget about Erelyi. It would forget her easily enough.   
“Finding anything that’s caught your eye?” A warm voice chimed in the silence. Illia turned and smiled with delight as her eyes rested on the familiar frame of Antony Bayard. He had grown taller since the last time he had seen her, several inches in fact. 

Two years had passed since she’d last seen her friend. Even then, it had been a short visit. Arnbjorn had been conducting some relations visits between Lucius and Armond Morthrial, the King of the Erindelles. Antony and Illia had stood side by side in silence as they watched the king of one their most hated enemies pass through the halls of the Keep. He appeared like nothing Illia had ever seen before. A crown of honey locks adorned his head, longer than her own. Dressed in the finest silks, his caramel skin stood out among the tan and pale natives of the Isles. His black eyes had gazed over her for merely a moment before they fixated once again on his goal. For a moment, Illia felt as though the air had been pulled from her chest. How could a man be so beautiful yet frightening? Using her skirts as a shield, Antony had squeezed her hand, allowing her a moment of comfort before they were to be dismissed to their various locations.  
She and Antony had spent hours walking through the gardens, discussing the possibility of peace between Erelyi and Erindelle. The biggest disagreement that the countries had faced was on the topic of slavery. Erindelle had sent a multitude of raiders to ransack villages the Isles. Men, women, and children, citizens of Erelyi, would be sold off to various regions of Erindelle. Most were never heard from again. The Isles were willing to remain silent when Erindelle had attacked the elven villages, but when it had spread to the humans, hell had broken loose. Still, the Isles were not free of its sins. Many of its sailors had entered waters claimed by Erindelle’s crown. Poaching had become a notorious issue.   
“I think we can make peace with them.” Antony had said, “The Isles will never embrace slavery, but we can learn a lot from Erindelle. They have some of the most advanced mechanisms we’ve ever seen.”  
“You mean magical devices.” She had replied sharply. Illia knew how powerful Erindelle was. She respected them as a nation, but it did not exclude the facts: They used their devices to implement a harsher caste system. She had only glanced at some of the instruments that they used to keep their slaves in line. Heavy, iron collars dangled around the slave’s throat with spikes lining the inner part of the collar to send a shock of magic, all to be used at the master’s command should his property decide to be defiant. Whips were cursed with bleeding spells to make punishments harsher and terrifying. It was things like this that made it near impossible for the caste system to break. However, it wasn’t as though the Isles were much better. “I don’t know if the question is if we can, but if we should?”  
“If we have the option to make peace, you don’t think we should take it?” Antony asked. Illia wondered if this was the question all leaders must face. Ideally, there would be ongoing peace and no need for war in the first place. However, that wasn’t how it always played out in real life.  
“I’m saying that I’m not sure.” Her voice had been faraway, lost in thought. At that point in time, her father had finally announced his plans to marry her to Gerron in the Vales. On her seventeenth winter, she would be sent to Vales to carry out her father’s wishes. Her fifteen-year-old mind had been adrift in a sea of worry. Soon, she would be facing the same moral issue all leaders faced. And she knew she wasn’t ready. “I just know that sometimes the right thing isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes action is necessary.”  
“Sometimes we don’t get to choose the right thing.” Antony replied. Illia had finally looked in his direction. Only a year younger than her, Antony had still been taller than most of the boys his age. Yet, ever in comparison to her father, Antony was only tall among Erelyi standards. His lavender eyes looked out along the fountains and flowers. For a moment, he didn’t look like the friend she had spent all her childhood chasing about the fields; No, he looked like a Lywenhart.

He watched her now with those same amethyst eyes which graced those of Lywenhart bloodline. Like Celene, he carried the same heart shaped face, smooth alabaster skin, and thin nose. He was the spitting image of his mother, save for the raven locks of Wesley Arkhyle. “I personally have preferred the works of Montier Barkwar. He’s written some fine poetry.”  
“You know I’ve never cared much for poetry.”  
“Of course, not unless it was written by Luna Winters.” Antony continued, joining her alongside the shelves. The warm scent of cinnamon and vanilla clung to the air around him, reminding Illia of all the times they had spent in the gardens of the Keep. They had played for hours, resting on picnic blankets during lunch before spending their evenings reading beneath the bed sheets of his room. If anyone in the kingdom knew Illia for who she was, it was Antony. “I never cared much for her though. Her writings were always sad with no purpose.”  
“Not everyone can write about all the different trees.” Illia teased. Without warning, Antony finally embraced her. It was one of the few times he could without the threat of his brother or the eyes of the court. Among the shelves, they were free.   
“I’ve missed you. The letters just aren’t enough.” He whispered in her ear, holding her for longer than he knew he should. Illia couldn’t stand to part from him though. It had been years since she had last seen her friend, and she had barely spoken with him then. Now, she didn’t know when the next time would be that she would see him. She fought back the harsh feeling of tears as they burned past her eyes. She had been afraid she would not be able to say good-bye.  
“I’ve missed you too. I feared I would not see you before I returned.” Illia said before she began to laugh. “Your brother was practically hounding me at the ball.”  
“I heard.” Antony said hesitantly pulling apart from her. He brushed a few loose strands of her hair behind her ear. “Is it true that you both shall marry?”  
“I pray not.” Illia maintained her composure knowing full well her father had no intention of ever marrying her to Aarion. “The only benefit would be that I would be able to see you as often as I like.”  
“You know full well that Aarion would never allow me within ten feet of you.” The youngest son teased, resting his hand on hers for a brief moment before letting it fall to his side. “He’s always been jealous of your preference for me. He never considered that if he wasn’t such an ass that you might take more of a liking to him.”  
“I’d sooner fall in love with a fish.”  
“Or Sebastian Arkhyle.”  
“I take it you heard about that.” She replied, once again returning to face the books. She was still sorting through the fact that the Arkhyles knew of her father’s plans. Had he reached out to them as well, or had they just discovered the truth? What kind of pull did the Arkhyles still have that they were able to locate the truth? Sebastian had assured her of his support, but it was difficult to know who to trust. “He’s really not all they make him out to be. He’s rather…”   
Tedious, annoying, vexing, intelligent, exhilarating. Illia wasn’t sure which word she would use to describe her interaction with the exiled cousin of the Lywenharts. She had never been more terrified, but it had been worth every second.  
“Well-versed in conversation.” She finished, although she was quite certain she had made a pause as she attempted to find the right words to describe Sebastian. He truly was a perplexing individual. “I wish the court would not punish him for his family’s blood. He is still a Lywenhart.”  
“Just the same as I am still a bastard.” Antony replied harshly. “Sebastian isn’t the only one paying for his father’s sins.”  
“I’m sorry, Antony. I didn’t mean- “  
“It’s fine, Illia.” He continued; his tone cold only for a moment before it carried its usual warm nature. “I simply don’t want you to fall victim because of your interactions with him. The entire kingdom loves to gossip. Aarion will also not take to kindly to his future bride fraternizing with his cousin. Sebastian has quite the reputation among many women, although most of them are not noble.”  
“A noble wouldn’t dare to harm their potential relationship with the Bayards. Of course, they avoid him as though he carries the plague.” The girl continued, her mind lingering more and more over the Arkhyles. How long would they remain the shamed family?   
“Just be careful, Illia. I would hate to see you get hurt.” The youngest son said, his eyes sparkling as they always did when she was near. Illia suspected she might his only true friend in the entire world. As much as the Arkhyles had been shamed, Antony had often faced the same retribution. Many had ignored the soft-spoken son, naming him a coward and a bastard. “How long will you be staying?”  
“My father had plans for us to leave after breakfast. He’s conducting some business and then I suspect we shall be on our way.” She replied, suddenly struck with sadness. “I wish we had shared more time together. Shall you continue to write me?”  
“Of course. Although…” Antony quieted, careful in his speech and picking the best words. “The next time we might speak, you may be marrying my brother.”  
“Perhaps. However, I do not believe my father will so easily marry me off to a little boy in big trousers.” Illia quipped although she knew full well that her father had intentions to marry her off to a stranger. What would happen to Antony when all this was done? What would happen if her father succeeded and the Bayards were stripped of the crown? He would become a bastard and a low-born. Would he hate her? Would he name her a traitor? She couldn’t stand the thought.   
Instead, she tightly embraced her friend once more, inhaling the sweetness of his scent. His arms snaked around her, his nose rest on the crook of her neck while his left-hand rest in her hair. Their chests connected. For a moment, Illia could feel his heartbeat in sync with her own. And for the first time, she couldn’t stand the thought of letting him go. When their plan was finished, she would have to protect Antony. She had to make sure Arnbjorn would keep him safe.   
“I will miss you so very much.” She whispered as she willed the tears to not fall from her eyes. It was cruel. She hadn’t wanted to lie to her friends. Yet, everything already felt like a lie. She didn’t want to marry Gerron Greywind, nor did she desire to marry Aarion. She wanted to curse Arnbjorn for his treachery, but his will was her own.   
“I’ll see you soon enough.” Antony whispered before he hesitantly pulled away. He seemed thinner; his features more mature as he continued to age. “I suppose you’ll have to be off.”  
“Yes, I’m afraid so. It was good to see you though.” She said as she brushed away his low hanging bangs from his brow. “Don’t let Aarion be such an ass.”  
“You always say that.” He replied slyly. “Until we meet again, Illia.” Taking her hand, he brushed his lips against her knuckles before he went about his business in the shop. Taking a deep breath, Illia composed herself.  
It wouldn’t be long before she was on the open sea, heading in the direction of her strange homeland. As intimidated and angry as she was, some part of her was still excited at the prospect of being in a new land. It was a fresh start, somewhere far away from the Bayards and the Lywenharts. Perhaps politics were easier in the Vales. It was the one hope she could cling to.

Two Weeks Later…  
The cold, frigid waters of the Great Sea lapped against the misty shores of the Vales. The air was frigid and visible through the sharp gusts of snow and ice. The waves were strong and difficult; Illia could only watch in amazement as the sailors of the ship weaved and stifled the sails as they pulled closer towards the harbor.   
From a distance, the mooring left little to be desired. If it had not been for the two visible shops and tavern, it would have appeared abandoned at first glance. There was only one ship at the port: a fisherman dingy which reeked of old mackerel and fish bones. Loose boards clung by mere splinters to the rotting deck. It was nothing like how she imagined her first moments in her homeland to be.   
Illia was dressed warmly enough though. Her father had made sure she would be properly dressed in thick, heavy gowns with a fur cloak to match. Although she had been told many times to stay below deck, the young girl couldn’t bare the thought of not seeing the misty coast of her homeland for herself. Ducking and weaving to stay out of the way of sailor, she climbed her way to the bow of the ship and stared out across the sea.   
“Lady Stormborn, I must insist that you remain in your quarters.” Captain Archer suddenly said behind her. “The main deck is not the place for a woman. Sails go amuck, the men are lusting- “  
“Captain, look.” Illia didn’t bother to pretend she was paying attention. In the distance, beyond the rotting port, were trees like no other had seen before. Tall, looming with thick branches and leaves like needles. Beyond the trees were mountains, black and green from the trees, but white as snow at their peaks. Erelyi had no wonders like these. The land was flat, the trees scaled like dragon’s flesh. The flowing rivers of Erelyi were soft, and calm. The Vales seemed…untamed.   
“Welcome to the Vales, m’lady.” Archer said with a heavy chuckle. “A desolate wasteland covered in snow and mud. Doesn’t look like much in comparison to the Isles?”  
“I-I suppose I’ve just never seen anything like it.” Illia replied, embarrassed of how she had behaved like a wanderlust child. Quickly, she adjusted her skirts and took the posture of a lady. “Where am I to go once we land, Captain Archer?”  
“There is supposed to be someone to greet you at the mainland.”  
“I suppose it would be Lord Greywind.”  
The sailor laughed. It was at that moment that Illia realized how much she must have sounded like a fool. A king leaving his throne to come and greet her? How privileged and entitled she must have sounded. Of course, Lord Greywind would not be inclined to come and greet her in person. His presence was required in the capital.  
“I think you’ll be sorely disappointed, m’lady.” Grinned the seasoned captain in a thin smile. “More likely that scrawny lad of his will be escorting you to Highmark.” Archer motioned for Illia to follow him as they pulled into port. The wind was strong, but the sailors were resilient. Ropes were swung across the deck, lassoing the ship to its beams as it dropped anchor. More of the men struggled with gathering a long platform for the pair to walk across.   
Illia followed in step with Archer, certain to not trip over her skirts. The waters below them appeared to be deadly cold, and she feared she would be swallowed up by the black waves. She was so focused on her steps that she nearly ran into the captain as he came to a sudden stop. However, he appeared unimpeded as he motioned over the group of men who were approaching them.  
Soldiers, none like Illia had ever seen before, stood in line. Dressed in heavy steel and chains, they loomed over the sailors. For the first time, Illia believed she had seen men who were taller than Arnbjorn. However, at the point of their guard, stood a gentleman dressed in a black cloak. Unlike the burly guards, he was lean with graceful muscles and an average stature. He only stood an inch taller than the young girl, although he was obviously a few years older. Clean shaven, his brown hair was shaggy and unkempt. This was obviously the scrawny lad of whom Archer had been referring.   
“Welcome to the Vales, Lady Stormborn.” His voice was as smooth as silk. His posture, although still structured and firm, remained relax as he bowed his head before her. “I trust your journey was not too exhausting.”   
“It was rather refreshing. Captain Archer was a wonderful host.” She replied, returning the courtesy. “Forgive me, I was never informed of who would be escorting me to Highmark save that they would in the servitude of Lord Greywind.”  
“Of course, my sincerest apologies.” The man replied, his gray eyes meeting hers briefly before he answered. “My name is Commander Eithor. I am in charge of Lord Gerron’s guardsmen, and his advisor in all dealings of magic.”   
“What he means to say is that he is a leashed mage.” Archer finally spat, clearly unsupportive of anyone leading the guard who didn’t bother to pick up a weapon. The young girl was surprised; magic was supposed to be all but praised in the Vales.   
“Captain Archer, it’s always a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.” Smooth and even, The Commander seemed unphased by the old man’s remarks. His eyes returned once again to Illia, steady and calm. However, the slightest flex of his sharp jaw hinted at his distaste of the captain. “My men are available to gather your things before we set forth to the mountains. Was there anything you would be needing from your cabin, m’lady?”  
“I believe I am quite settled.” She wasn’t sure why, but she felt it was necessary to enter the carriage which sat on the nearby hill as soon as possible. Perhaps, she simply wanted to stretch her legs, but she was more certain that it was the fear that Archer would make another disgruntled comment to the young man.   
“Very well. Let us set forth to Highmark.” he said, letting his arm lead the way to their transportation. “After you, Lady Stormborn.”

The carriage buckled and moved harshly along the dirt road. Between traveling on the open sea and being tossed about by the carriage, Illia found herself becoming nauseous. Pressing her hand against her naval, she hoped to alleviate the ill feeling, but found herself fighting off spasms of pain. Still, she focused her attention to the nature surrounding her.   
The strange, needled trees surrounded them with their evergreen color. Flying amongst their branches were wild looking birds. Brown, red, blue, and black: she had never seen such a variety of different colors, nor heard such an arrangement of different calls. Some low, some high, others mid-ranged and bellowing, Illia was almost convinced they were surrounded by the birds. She had almost forgotten about the quickening in her stomach until the carriage hit another sharp pump, and she barely held back the bile in her throat.   
“Are you alright, m’lady?” The Commander asked, his eyes were sincere. Illia forced a fake smile, trying to disguise her discomfort. Play dumb, she thought.   
“I’m sorry, what did you ask?” she feigned ignorance, although the waves in the pit of her seemed to try to force the truth out of her. She had to appear proper, had to appear unphased and poised. The lessons which had been stuffed into her brain echoed in her ears for her to be seen, not heard. She didn’t want to make a bad impression on her first day in the Vales.  
“I was simply inquiring on your health, m’lady.” The mage replied in a low tone, but not unkindly. “I don’t mean to be unkind, however, you look a bit under the weather.”   
It was true. Illia looked pale at the best of times, but she looked worse for wear. The dark circles under her eyes made her features appear hollow. All color had drained from her face, leaving her with a cold and clammy sensation.   
“It was a long journey, I must admit.” Illia continued to play coy, unwilling to admit how she felt as though she might vomit at any moment.  
“I understand, m’lady. In fact, I often myself feeling quite drained after crossing the sea.” His smile was warm, his eyes discerning. He obviously knew what was troubling her. The question was if he would make her admit it. To her surprise, the mage reached into his pocket and drew out a small, black bottle. He offered it to her in an innocent tone, clearly not willing to embarrass her further.  
Opening the cork, Illia smelled the contents. Chamomile and peppermint: she had used them often enough in her teas. Yet, she couldn’t quite place her finger on the other scent. Her icy eyes questioned the mage curiously.   
“I promise it’s not poison, m’lady. It will alleviate your discomfort.” The mage explained, his smile lighting up his features. “I use it often when I feel ill.”   
At that, Illia finally swallowed down the medicine. Sweet with a bitter aftertaste, it reminded Illia of dry red wine. She felt its warmth slide down her throat, reminding her that it had been quite some time since she had last eaten. But surely enough, the heat spread all the way down to her toes, and she felt her stomach begin to settle.   
“I’ve never had a medicine work so quickly before.” She said as she handed Eithor the empty bottle. “What is in it?”  
“A bit of chamomile, peppermint, and drake root all infused with a bit of healing magic.” He replied placing the bottle back into his cloak. “It’s a bit of my own creation, but it works quickly enough.”  
“Are you a healer, Commander?”   
“I am whatever Lord Greywind requires me to be.” The mage was quiet again, his tone dull and distant. Following his lead, Illia remained the same. Yet, she couldn’t help but notice his features. A thin, Roman nose adorned his diamond shaped face. His hooded, gray eyes glanced along the countryside, taking in the view of the trees and the landscape. Following his line of sight, she noticed that the nature surrounding them was becoming more mountainous. The trees were becoming scarcer, and even the air was slightly harder to breathe. “Is this the first time you’ve been to the Vales, Lady Stormborn?”  
Illia quickly straightened herself, fully aware that she must have been gaping as they drew further towards Highmark. It seemed as though she were determined to make a blubbering fool out of herself this day.   
“My father said he once took me here when I was an infant so I could be baptized by the followers of Atria.” She finally replied, once again glancing at the rocky pass before she returned her gaze to Eithor. He was watching her intently. Was he waiting for her to make some kind of mistake? “I’ve not been back since. I’ve been excited to explore my homeland.”  
“I hope you’ll find it to your liking.” His voice was charming again, smooth and pleasant. A crooked smile graced his lips. For a moment, Illia felt the same sick feeling of frustration form in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t figure this man out. One moment he was warm and smiling, the next he was cold and formal. Perhaps it was because he was a mage. She had heard that their kind was always under the influence of the spirits they served.   
“What do you know of Lord Greywind?” Illia finally asked, changing the subject. Part of her simply wanted to stop talking about the Isles as it kept reminding her about everyone she had left behind. The other part of her was genuinely curious about her future husband. It seemed that no one in the kingdom even bothered to talk about him. Although, she has only spoken with Captain Archer and Commander Eithor so perhaps they simply didn’t talk about him.   
“I suppose more than most.” The mage pierced his lips as he thought, probably discerning on what was best to say in this situation. “He’s a good ruler, a strong king. But Gerron cares about his people and will do whatever is best for the Vales, no matter the cost to his own person.”   
But is what is best for the Vales always what’s best for everyone, Illia thought but did not say aloud. 

For a long time, Illia had wondered why the Vales had included themselves in her father’s plans. Of course, Arnbjorn was the last male heir of the original families, but the Vales would have never interfered with another country’s leadership. It took until recently for Illia to finally begin to understand that Vales sought its independence. The unruly country had been willing to bend the knee for only so long, but in the end, the Vales were never meant to be tamed nor conquered. Especially by another country which mocked its gods, traditions, and blood rights.   
With Gerron on the throne that would all change, or at least that’s what they hoped. 

The city of Endur was known by many but seen by few in the Vales. Deep in the center of the mountain ridges, the city had been carved into the black and white bedrock. There were many citizens roaming the streets dressed in heavy furs and cotton dresses to fight against the cold. What seemed to catch the young girl off guard was the number of women wearing split legged trousers. Although some women in the Isles had been seen wearing the fashion, it was still uncommon.  
Illia was fascinated. Erelyi was known for its liberal gowns, but a woman’s curves were never celebrated. In the tight pants every single curve could be seen, the dip of a woman’s waist to the expanse of her thigh drawing nearer to thin calves. She wondered what it would be like to wear them. She imagined it would be easier to move.   
Although not nearly as tall as the buildings in Stalhold, the structures were more complex with domed features instead of flat roofs. Statues were carved throughout the city, depicting the stories of the old gods, although many were chipped away and broken or encompassed by dead moss. In the center of Endur stood a marketplace. Vendors with a multitude of stands attempted to sell their wares; jewelry, fabric, produce, salted meats, and perfumes. It was nothing like the multitude of streets filled with market stalls in Stalhold. Finally, her blue eyes fell on the gray, stone walls of Highmark.  
The castle was massive. Unlike the simplistic, colonial style of the Goldenarch Keep, Highmark was made up of an assortment of towers peeking into the clouds. The evergreen banners moved in the direction of the wind as they clung to the gates of the castle. Adorned upon them was the sigil of the Greywinds: a silver raven. In truth, the city was more gorgeous than Stalhold could ever dream of being. It was as though the city had been built into the nature, as though it had always been meant to be there.   
“This is like nothing I ever imagined.” Illia whispered as she stared out at the streets. Their carriage had caught the attention of some of the townsfolk, who waved as the moved through the roads.   
“Not all cities are like this.” He replied; his eyes fixated once again on the girl. “Only Endur and Gallows’ Reach have building formed from stone. The mountains protect us from most things, but we are not without the occasional avalanche. Stone seems to be the only thing to survive the snow.”  
It was then that Illia was reminded of how bitterly cold it was in the mountains. She wasn’t sure if she could ever get used to it. She was certain that if the people did not dress properly, they were sure to perish at night. The people of Endur had to be resilient and forceful. Part of her wondered if they helped the poor or was each meant to fin for themselves. But before she could even begin to ask questions, they had already encroached Highmark’s doorstep. 

Crossing the threshold, Illia saw that the heavy, towering, stone gates protected from view dead shrubbery and barren trees. The snow had all but killed the gardens. A sting of disappointment pierced Illia’s throat, but she still had hope to see the flowers in the spring. At least the green, needled trees brought some color to the black and white city. As they approached the entrance of the keep, Illia was struck by the sheer size of the architecture. Nothing in Erelyi compared to the size of Highmark. Still entranced in her thoughts, the carriage came to a halt, and the door opened.  
Commander Eithor stepped out first then offered his hand to Illia so she could more easily step out of the carriage. Taking it gratefully, she lifted the skirts of her heavy gown to take her first steps in her new home.   
Glass windows stained as darkly as obsidian lined the gray stone of Highmark. Several balconies could be seen on the towers which made up a majority of the keep. Illia wondered how many times they had to rebuild them considering how often storms hit this region. Shrubs and bushes which looked similar to the needled trees lined the entrance although they were covered in snow. However, the black gates of Highmark stood looming and tall. Standing there to greet them was three men.  
The man to the left was dressed head to toe in heavy leather armor, his ginger beard falling to his chest. He was the biggest man Illia had ever laid eyes on. His eyes as black as night, he watched Illia with suspicious eyes, his hand positioned as though he were ready to take his axe at any point in time and swing on her. The man on the right was of the same stature although he appeared shorter than both of the other men. His salt and pepper beard was trimmed and well kept. His thick hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Illia, however, did not need to be introduced to the man in the center.  
Dressed in thick, heavy, fine garments, Gerron Greywind stood between both men. His dark brown hair, although shaggy, was clean and tucked behind his ears. His beard was kept short and clean, tightly shaved so his already strong jaw appeared sharper and more masculine. His hooded, hazel eyes examined her up and down. For the first time in her life, Illia felt insecure. It wasn’t the first time she had been examined by interested buyers, but it was different knowing full well that the buyer intended to finalize his purchase. He was older too, older than any other man who had ever gazed her way. A combination of bile and pain cultivated in her gut and she feared she might faint. She was there; she was actually there with him. It was no longer a looming threat, a distant fear, but the man she had been promised to was standing before her in the flesh.   
Biting her cheek until she tasted blood, she forced herself to compose. Gerron would be just like any other man. He wanted honey words and strokes to his ego. It’s a game, she told herself over and over again. Her father needed her to fulfill her duty. His life counted on her sealing this alliance. The familiar cool feeling of numbness washed over her as she felt the Commander motion her to move forward. It was hidden behind her dress, a kind gesture to help her regain herself. Ignoring the urge to thank him, she took a step forward, slowly approaching, but being careful to keep her form exact and precise. Instead, she curtsied before her husband-to- be before she swallowed hard once again. She had to paint him with the title of king, not husband. A king was easier to keep ahead of, easier to separate herself from.   
“Lady Stormborn,” His voice boomed as though he were born to rule. That was the difference between Gerron and the Bayards. The Bayards had to use blood and weapons to control. Men like Gerron simply commanded it. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Was your journey taxing?”  
“No, m’lord.” Illia thanked the gods that her tone was cool and even. It seemed those years of practice were finally paying off. “Commander Eithor and Captain Archer were both attentive to my comfort.”  
“I’ll see to it that Archer receives a bonus.” Gerron replied before turning his attention to the mage. “I’m glad to see that you’ve returned safely, Commander. I could not have trusted any other man with the matter.”  
“Of course, m’lord.” He crossed his fist over his chest, giving the king a nod. It seemed to be the common way men addressed their betters in the Vales. Illia had seen a few guards give the commander the same gesture when he had given them orders.   
“It’s good you finally put yourself to some use, Commander.” It was the first time the ginger-bearded man had stated anything. For a moment, Illia had almost forgotten he was present.   
Illia noticed the commander’s jaw clench once again, a small trivial movement that continued to catch the girl off-guard. Her eyes narrowed in the man’s direction. How could someone speak with such indifference to a commander?   
“Thank you, General Lowcross.” The mage replied, this time allowing his temper to bleed through his tone. “I heard of your recent defeat in Astryia. Tell me, General, have you managed to discover where the raiders are located?”  
“I ought to gut you like a fish—”  
“Surely there’s no need for bloodshed my first day in the Vales, General.” Illia’s voice was breathy and filled with deference. “Your character is clear for all to see. I’m sure you’re doing all you can to rectify any security issues.”  
Lowcross smiled, completely ignorant to the girl’s backhanded compliment. She wasn’t even sure Gerron caught onto her words, but the small movement from the corner of the Commander’s mouth showed her that he surely did. Gerron, however, interceded any further interaction.  
“If we are quite finished, I’m sure Lady Stormborn wishes to rest before dinner.”

After a long nap, Illia found herself in the steaming waters of a bath. Her skin basked in the red heat as she closed her eyes. For a moment, she felt as though she would fall asleep once more. Her muscles relaxed, her senses dulling for a moment as she inhaled the scent of the rose oils she had placed in the water. Eyes shut, she almost managed to convince herself that she was still in the Isles. Still, the fantasy could only remain that way for a short time.  
More than she liked, she felt the seeping urge to weep. Long ago, she accepted that she would be married off to some noble. It was the common practice for most noble girls. She was no exception to the rules. However, it had always felt so far away, nowhere close to her. When she discovered she would be marrying Gerron, she had tried to convince herself she would be okay with it. She would be in a new land, and Gerron was not Aarion. Anyone had to be better than Aarion. But ever since she had entered the Vales, she felt off. She wasn’t nearly as graceful, and it was harder to keep her emotions contained. It was exhausting, and she tried to convince herself that it was simply the long journey. Then her mind would remind her of the truth: The Vales were not the Erelyi Isles. She was out of her element. Sink or swim: she had to quickly gain her footing.   
Opening her eyes, she realized that dusk was quickly approaching. Dressing in a lighter but still heavy, olive gown, she pulled her raven strands in a tightly curled updo that made her appear more mature. With a quick pinch of her cheeks, she was just about to exit the room when she heard a soft knock at her door. Opening it, she was surprised to see Gerron standing quietly in the hall.  
“I thought I would escort you to the dining hall if that’s alright.” He said. With a soft nod, Illia walked alongside the king as they moved through the halls. The dark pine floors were covered by intricate green carpets. More bannered ravens were hanging along the walls and stairwells. However, Illia found herself admiring the portraits of the different family members of the Greywinds. Their history seemed to stretch out farther than Illia had known. Men and women dressed in either royal garb or warrior armor could be seen in the dark colored paintings. However, one painting caused Illia to stop dead in her tracks.   
It was a family of five. The mother was beautiful with fiery red hair and soft looking skin. Her husband sat on a simple chair, his brown hair long and pulled back. Below them were three children: two boys and a little girl with the same fiery hair as her mother. One of the boys though bore a similar resemblance to Gerron.  
“Do you have siblings, Lord Greywind?” she asked as she continued to admire the portrait.   
“Two by blood. Both have passed on to Atria’s shores.”  
“I’m sorry. Losing a loved one can be difficult.”  
“True, but it was quite some time ago.” Gerron continued as he once again began to lead them towards the dining hall. It wasn’t much farther down the hall, but still, Illia felt it would take quite some time before she would get used to the large keep. It would take a miracle for her to remember how to get back to her room.   
The dining hall was decorated in a similar manner to the rest of the palace. Dressed in the evergreen color of the Greywinds, the only difference was the large chocolate colored table which sat in the center of the room. What also caught Illia’s attention was the presence of the two men she had met earlier along with Commander Eithor.  
“I figured it’d be better to make acquaintances here.” Gerron explained, seemingly noticing Illia’s confusion. “Lady Stormborn, these are my advisors. General Lowcross, as you know, is the leader of our armies. He has been helping us to plan the battle strategies in the Isles, so you’ll be seeing him often. Lord Ol’Fellow is our ambassador between the Vales and our allies.”  
“If I may be so bold, m’lady.” Ol’Fellow interjected “I am shocked by how strongly you resemble your mother.”  
“You knew Myradin?”  
“I did. Your father and I were in the war together against Erindelle.” The ambassador continued; his brown eyes bright as he remembered his time with the Stormborns. “I met her when she worked as a healer with the other ladies. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to dress a wound, but she learned quickly enough.”  
Illia was floored. Arnbjorn had never explained how he and Myradin had met. And she had never heard of a noble woman spending any time in the fields of battle. Such a thing was unheard of in Erelyi. But from what she had learned, the Great War between the Vales and Erindelle had caused many casualties. It was the entire reason the Vales had submitted to the rule of the Isles.   
“And you’ve met the Commander.” Gerron continued. “I’ve given Commander Eithor the task of being your personal escort and guard in the Vales.”  
“Am I to remain in the castle then?”  
“No.” Gerron replied “Your father has made sure you will have freedoms in the Vales. According to the people in the Isles, you have been sent to the Vales to lay claim to your birthrights in the Great Plains and to strengthen alliances among the original families.”  
“I’m glad.”  
“According to Arnbjorn, he had to be realistic with how we went about things.” Gerron said with a grin “One of the things he stated was that he’d be a fool to think he could keep you under lock and key.”  
Illia felt all the blood rush to her cheeks, but she quickly calmed herself. At least her father had been clear about her demeanor. However, it gave her a disadvantage in handling Gerron. She’d have to rethink her strategy in how she went about conversations with him. With a motion of his hand, Gerron inclined for everyone to sit. Thankfully, Illia sat at the opposite end of the table whereas the king sat surrounded by his advisors. Shortly after, servants entered the room, serving portion of mutton and vegetables and pouring goblets of wine. The men began to dig into their portions, paying little attention to her as she picked at a strange black and white fruit with a pink shell. It was sweet, reminding her of the fresh melon that was often served in Erelyi. She dug in happily, enjoying the quiet until a maid almost tripped over her feet.  
“Are you alright?” Illia said, outstretching her hand to help the young girl up. The men glanced for a mere moment but continued to pay attention to their discussion. The maid seemed hesitant to take her hand, but eventually took it gratefully.   
“My sincerest apologies, m’lady.”  
“Don’t apologize, they aren’t disturbed so there’s no harm done.” Illia continued “What’s your name?”  
“Freya, m’lady.”  
“A pleasure to meet you, Freya.” The girl was pretty with a splash of freckles upon her skin. Her honey eyes remained low as most servants did when they first addressed Illia. Seems even those habits translated across countries. “Are you sure you’re alright?”  
“Nothing I can’t handle, m’lady.”  
“Why don’t you take a small break? I’m sure Lord Greywind has enough people in the kitchen.” The maid smiled before she quickly curtsied and made her way out of the room. Illia continued to nibble on her meal, mostly enjoying the savory flavor of the cooked potatoes. It was nice to have a distraction. But she didn’t want her life in the Vales to be her consistently seeking distractions for forget the situation she was in. There had to be a better way around it.  
“So, Lady Stormborn, do you have any siblings?” Gerron asked her, breaking her from her thoughts. Taking a small sip of wine, she felt the mask once again take over her.   
“I am an only child.” She answered. “My mother did birth a son, but both passed during the ordeal.”  
“A shame for Arnbjorn to lose a wife and a son.” The king once again took a bite bread before taking a swig from his own goblet. “I’m surprised he never remarried.”  
“A choice I’m certain he regrets now.” Illia’s cool mask remained intact, but she felt the poisonous feeling of anger seep through her blood. Was it really so wrong for Arnbjorn to love Myradin that he wished to not marry again? All her life, she had hoped to have a love like that. It was one of things that Illia respected the most about Arnbjorn. When he made a vow, he intended to keep it.  
“I doubt that. Sons are useless in a situation such as ours.” The king replied his eyes looking her up and down again. She was certain she appeared to be a child in comparison. He looked to at least see thirty winters, but he was still much younger than her father. “I must confess, Lady Stormborn, I never thought I would find myself in a situation like this.”  
“An arranged marriage?” Illia questioned “Are they really so uncommon in the Vales?”  
“Many prefer to pursue marriage in the traditional sense.” Her cousin continued as he stood approaching her. Illia remained stiff and seated as he rested against the table in front of her. It was her first time getting a strong look at him. He had a square jaw, similar to that of Arnbjorn. It seemed to be a common feature among most Valemen. Gerron was handsome though. She was certain he had seen his fair share of women, and she doubted all of them were virgins. Taking another sip of wine, she chose to ignore where that thought would lead. She knew her duties as a future wife, but she prayed she could avoid it for as long as possible.   
“Then why did you agree to a practice you do not support?” Illia dared to ask. She would not play coy with Gerron; she understood that now. He wanted to test her. That was why he had taken the time to walk her to the dining hall, to ask her provoking questions, and why he was so close to her now.   
“I have no family by blood, Lady Stormborn. My entire life centers among the Vales.” His eyes continued to watch her, testing how daring she truly was. His eyes revealed his honesty, something Illia was not used to seeing from those who spoke with her. “The people are my children. I will always put their needs above my own.”  
“That is a noble ideal.”  
“Only an ideal?”  
“Sometimes a ruler must do what’s best for his country…and sometimes what is best is not what the people will support.” Illia replied, her mind made up. “Take for instance the treatment of mages in the Isles. Lucius has perpetuated the belief that all mages seek to use their powers for personal gain throughout the land because it’s what the people desire to believe. However, this belief has caused many mages to be persecuted and killed. It has led us to time of disease and plagues because we’ve had no healers to combat them.”  
“And you believe all kings must do this?”   
“There is no choice.” Illia continued, meeting his hooded eyes. There was something in his gaze that intimidated her. It felt as though he meant to look through her. With a coy grin, she decided to return his challenge. “Is it not the duty of a parent to lead his children, not simply adhere to their desires?”  
The corner of his mouth twitched; out of amusement or irritation she wasn’t sure, but Gerron seemed to respond well to her quip. Soon his small twitch stretched into a low smile as he played with a heavy ring which bore his family crest.   
“And what of a queen? What are her duties?”  
A counter: To be fair, the simple answer would be to produce an heir. That was the common belief shared by many. A queen was to remain silent, pure, and to promote the king’s affairs. However, if she gave such an answer, she would be no different than the many young women who lose their voice to their husbands. If she didn’t want to submit herself to that life, she would have to say otherwise.  
“Honesty.” She finally replied “A queen must remain honest and her care for her people must be genuine. The queen’s love is an extension of the king’s love towards his people. She is the bridge between the two and so she must give the king a truthful state of affairs among his subjects.”  
“And is this what you desire from our relationship? Honesty?”   
In many ways the truth was terrifying. It meant she would be aware of Gerron’s desires, aware of his affairs, his mistresses, and his goals. Ignorance would be bliss, to be unaware of his plans for the Isles and fall into the background of his advisors.   
“I respect that you will always have the final say, Lord Greywind. I only desire to speak my piece.”   
“I think that can be easily arranged, m’lady.” His green eyes surveyed her again, only this time with less scrutiny. “You are wise. Tell me, are you this gifted in battle strategy?”  
For the first time since she arrived, Illia genuinely smiled. It seemed Gerron had some sense of humor, making him slightly less frightful. Hopefully, they could form some semblance of a friendship.  
“No, but I could tell you all about the final stand at Iron Rock.”

Night washed over the lands, leaving little people to roam the streets. Most of the servants had made their way back to their quarters, leaving Illia to lay helplessly awake in her bed. It was larger than the one she had slept in at home with feather-downed, maroon blankets laced with gold embroidery. The dark, oak wood which made up the frame took up a majority of her accommodations. There was a matching nightstand with an oil candle and another dark chair. A vanity with a mirror to match stood next to a wash basin. Except for a rug, there wasn’t much else in terms of décor. Illia had spent the past several hours tossing and turning, trying to will her body to fall into the exhaustion that overwhelmed her. Still, nothing seemed to work.  
Deciding to give up, Illia slipped into her loafers and decided to walk around the castle. She once again entered the hallway where the walls were dimly lit with candelabras. Through the stone walls, she could hear people whispering as little children asked their mothers for nighttime stories. It wasn’t uncommon for the servants to be up late in their quarters. Illia had grown up sometimes listening to their tales or lullabies through her bedroom walls at the Opal Manor. A slight inclination to peek into their room almost had Illia reach for the doorknob, but she decided otherwise and continued on her way.   
In the darkness, Highmark appeared almost menacing. The faces of the Greywind ancestors carried hollow eyes and thinly, pierced lips. She had heard stories of how the Greywinds came into the Vales since she was a little girl. Legends had told that Monimer Greywind had entered the Vales riding on the back of a gryphon. Of course, everyone knew that to be false. 

The alliances among the Original Families were a result of invasions and wars. The native families, the Blackwaters and the Stormborns, had lived in the lands for centuries. Up until seven generations ago, the Greywinds and Roxenburys had been natives to the islands that dotted the coast of the Vales. After being driven out by famine, the two families led their clans to the mainland where they were less than welcome. Fearing that war would break out, the Stormborns formed a treaty between the families that they would not enter the other’s lands. Each clan would receive a section of the mainland so they could prosper. Less than pleased with the idea, the Blackwaters declared to have total and absolute authority over the Brumelands. It would be a land separated from the mainland and free from any influence from the original families. The families agreed on the condition that the Blackwaters would be willing to meet under circumstances of war and crisis.   
The Roxenburys ascended to the northwest, taking for themselves the cold, barren region known as Gallows Reach. Claiming the northern sea, the clansmen of Gallows Reach were expert fisherman and relied heavily on the brutal waves to provide their meals although they did grow hearty crops such as potatoes, onions, and bitter greens. Robust and strong, the Roxenburys thrived in the northern lands. The Greywinds, of course, led their people to mountains in the northeast. They thrived in solitude, knowing that many didn’t dare ascend the region due to the thin air and bitter cold. It seemed they thrived more than even young Illia had anticipated. Her own people remained in the Great Plains, hunting wild game and growing crops to gain a bit of an edge in trade. They families remained divided for almost two centuries until the elves invaded the northern sea. For months, the Roxenbury’s fought against their armies, but to no avail. The elves were gaining more ground with each passing day. Left with no choice, they turned to the Stormborns who joined them in battling the elves.  
It was said that during this war that the first romance blossomed between the Original Families. Alyriah Stormborn had been one of the most talented archers among her clan. Against her father’s wishes, she joined a party that was helping some of the sick and elderly out of Gallows Reach to the Plains. Leading the escort was Athalmar Roxenbury. When he discovered Alyriah, he knew it would have been his duty to send her home. Instead, he allowed her to remain among his men, fighting along side him in the war. When wounded, they nursed one another back to health. They fought back to back, undefeated by their enemies. When the elves had finally been driven out Alyriah returned to the Plains, but Athalmar would not part from her. Falling to his knees, he asked her father for Alyriah’s hand in marriage. Tentatively, he agreed and the two were wed. It was first of many marriages among the Originals to follow. Soon, Draven Greywind would be wed to the daughter of Athalmar and Alyriah, Lavelyia.   
Of course, the Original Families had supported marriages with outsiders. That was what had made up most of their bloodlines. The most recent marriage to happen among them had been when Ida Roxenbury had been wed to Alrek Greywind. Now, it was Illia and Gerron. She supposed it had always been fated for her to wed one of the Originals. However, she was becoming glad that she had been placed in the Vales. The return of Stormborns would no doubt cause a ripple effect in the Vales, but she had begun to feel like she needed to be there. Getting used to Highmark, however, would take some getting used to. 

After some time walking along in the dark, Illia found herself at the entryway of a great door. She wasn’t sure long for how long she had been climbing up the stairs, but the aching in her thighs seemed to tell her for a while. The door was dark and heavy, obviously not often used or dusted by the look of the dusty, gray handles. Grasping on of the oversized knobs, Illia pulled the gate open only to be met with the gusting, brutal winds of the mountains. Still, she walked towards the cold, ignoring the sharp stings of the wind.  
The tower she had climbed must have been taller than the others. Ice clung to the edges of the balcony; the once green ivy was long since dead and brown. Snow had begun to cling to the gray stone, leaving her footprints as she walked further into the cold. She knew it was foolish to spend so much time in the elements, but she remembered her promise to her father; she would look out at the mountains at night. She didn’t imagine that Highmark grew much warmer than this. Slowly, she moved closer to the edge, her raven hair whipping against her cheek as it became caught in the pull of the air.   
The mountain canyons were nearly black with only the dark shadows of trees to be seen in the distance. Not a single star could be seen in the sky, not even the moon as billowing, ebony clouds overcast the peeks. There was almost nothing to be seen. It was a desert of black clouds and snow. Illia’s chest heaved in disappointment.   
The wind around her began to calm, and she was surprised to feel a heavy warm cloak wrap around her shoulders. Looking over her shoulder, Eithor had removed his cloak, although he was still suitably dressed for the cold.  
“I’ve heard that the nights in Erelyi are warm, but you’ll find that the Vales offers no such pleasantries.” He said, adjusting the cloak so it covered her more effectively. Illia hadn’t realized how chilled she had been until she felt the warmth of the furs. She thanked him, wrapping herself tighter in it. The scent of lavender and a warm, dark musk clung to the fabric, and for a moment, Illia found herself enamored with it, wondering if this was what the commander smelled like. “Are you finding it difficult to sleep, m’lady?”  
“My mind is more restless than I anticipated.” Illia replied once again, leaning against the railing to try to seek more of the landscape. Darkness stared back at her.   
“And you thought the cold would soothe your troubles?”  
Illia smiled. Of course, she was being childish, but she had felt drawn to explore. Gods help her if she had been locked out of the castle. Perhaps she should have saved her exploring for the morning. Finally, she began to explain, “I had been hoping to see the mountains. My father had asked me to watch them at night for him.”  
“Are you close with your father?”  
His question surprised her. It was something she had often wondered herself. Her father had never been outwardly cruel. He never hit her nor abused her, but his demeanor had always been cold. She didn’t have many memories of him ever holding her, or spending time with her. It was only until recently that he began to even tell her that he was proud of her. Arnbjorn was someone who was familiar, but evermore a stranger.   
“I suppose as close as any daughter is to her father.” She wasn’t even sure why she was really coming out in the winter to see these mountains. Her father had asked her, so maybe she believed if she looked out at them that she would understand some piece of Arnbjorn that she hadn’t known before. “It doesn’t matter though. The clouds are much too thick for night gazing. Did you follow me, commander?”  
“Only to keep you safe, m’lady. I am your guardian now.” The commander replied, his tone even and disinterested. “I couldn’t have you freeze to death on your first night here.”  
“You’re too kind.” Illia quipped. “I suppose I ought to try to go back to rest.”  
“Of course. Good night, m’lady.”   
“Good night, commander.” Illia turned to walk away. The wind had finally rested, allowing her some relief from the cold. She was halfway to the door when she heard the commander’s voice once again.  
“M’lady,” he began, making his way over to her, his steps most determined. “My apologies, but if you’ll allow me, I’d like to show you something.”  
Illia was hesitant, unsure of what Eithor was referring to. The wind was finally settled though, although the snow continued to fall. Once again, she felt that feeling in the pit of her stomach, knowing it would be wiser to go to her room. But instead, she simply nodded her head. With a smile, he led her back to the edge of the balcony allowing her to stare off once again into the black abyss.   
“Close your eyes, m’lady.” Illia did as she was instructed but shuddered for a moment as she felt the commander’s cold fingers gently press against her temples. For a brief moment she swore that she felt a surge of lightning run through her flesh, not painful but catching her off-guard. The feeling washed over with a wave of heat. “Open them.”

Gold light surrounded the peeks of the canyons, revealing their structure through the shroud of shadow that the night had casted along them. Piercing through the clouds, she could see the nearly blinding white light of the stars, shining down to valley below them. The rivers danced with green, blue, and purple orbs following their paths as they carved their way through the mountain passages. The very ground itself seemed to radiate a blue aura, strong and steady as it pulsed to the rhythm of the stars. It was as though they were creating their own orchestra of light, moving in rhythm as though they were a steady pulse.  
“How?” It was the first thing to escape Illia’s lips. For the first time in her entire life, she had been left with no words to respond. How was any of this real? Eithor’s hands remained on her skin, the warmth leaving her breathless as she felt her own heartbeat fall in sync with his.  
“This is what the Vales appear in the eyes of the gods and their servants.” He replied, the light growing stronger as he whispered. “You’re seeing as I see.”  
Her heart felt as though it was pounding against her chest. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed and allowed herself to ease into the feeling of warmth again. It was steady and inviting like stepping into a hot bath. The further she felt herself sink, the more she felt the presence of another heart, beating just as strongly as hers. She looked once again to the mountains, drinking in the gold and copper light that made them as clear as day to see though she doubted they would ever be looking this spectacular in the daytime. She could feel her chest filling with a well of questions but decided to not overwhelm the mage. At least...not too much.   
“Do you always see like this?  
“No, only when I’m practicing my magics. Most mages are able to learn how to control it.” The commander said allow his fingers to finally fall back to his side. The light slowly receded, and Illia felt the warm presence leave her once again as the cold of the Vales began to seep into her bones. “I wanted you to see that the Vales can be just as beautiful as the Isles. Not everything here is a bitter wasteland.”  
“It was the most breathtaking thing I had ever seen. I don’t even know what it was.” Illia felt a connection to the land, deep and rooted as though her heart had been trying match the beating of it. The world suddenly seemed so silent without it.  
“The Vales is steeped in magic. I can only imagine what Illrium must look like.” Eithor replied. For a moment, he looked younger. Illia hadn’t noticed it, but the commander seemed to have a look of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. In fact, she wasn’t sure quite how old he was although he was definitely younger than thirty. He seemed too old for his body. He seemed to glance back at her, his gray eyes curious as to why she was so deep-in thought as she stared. “Would you like me to escort you back to your room, m’lady?”  
“Yes, of course, commander.” She replied, breaking herself from her thoughts. “I’m certain I’ll get lost otherwise.” The mage laughed, his joy soft and smooth, as he guided her out of the cold and back to her room.   



	4. Chapter Three

Weeks seemed to pass in a blink of an eye. With each passing day, Illia became more familiar with the castle, or at least the places which were of the most important to her. Despite the number of servants and soldiers lining the halls of the palace, it was utterly quiet. The Goldenarch Keep had never been this silent even in the gravest of circumstances. Someone or something was always running about. The servant’s children had been free to run along the halls so long as they didn’t disturb any pressing work. Noble women always spent their days about with their fellow ladies in court. The girl wondered if she could ever get used to such quiet.  
This was why when brutal yelling echoed throughout the halls of Highmark, Illia nearly yelped in surprise, almost spilling an entire cup of tea on herself. Following the echoes of a heated debate, she was nervous to approach Gerron, the commander, the general, and the ambassador as they continued in their disagreement; well, by disagreement, it was more like the general was once again threatening to cut the Commander’s head off while the mage stood calm, cool, and collected.  
“You ignorant, little tit! You’ve never even seen a real battle!” Lowcross bellowed, spitting in waves as he spoke. “You’ve not even picked up a sword!”  
“I needn’t a sword to put you in your place, general.” The commander remained polite; his features calm as he spoke. How he managed such deference, Illia would never know. It wasn’t as though Lowcross had been outwardly repulsed by her, but he definitely regarded her as a foreigner. “Our allies are beginning to gather their forces. In a few months, we will be more than prepared to strike Stalhold. By charging in now, we would reveal our allies before they are prepared to defend themselves. We are not on the ground in this war; at least not for the time being.”  
“We need to be over there, Gerron.”  
“And risk the raiders entering our lands without our soldiers?” The commander’s jaw clenched once again, although no one seemed to notice his frustration. He turned back to Gerron, speaking to him directly for the first time. “We are seeing the sign of being infiltrated, m’lord. Raids are becoming more frequent with a similar pattern: the villagers are slaughtered, and your flags are burned. They claim no wealth nor goods. This is purely murder and meant to disregard your rule.”  
“Sounds like you know a bit too much about this, mage.” Lowcross’ accusation echoed, but Gerron seemed to pay no mind to it.   
“It is my job to know the king’s affairs. Let me be clear, General,” His tongue finally became venomous, his anger flaring as the general continued to provoke him. “If we attempt to secure the Isles by entering in there ourselves, we will lose control of the Vales. If our foundation is unstable, our new rule in the Isles will fall. We need to wait.”  
“We’ve been waiting almost sixteen years.” Lowcross beamed, his cheeks red and knuckles white. “You promised your father you would finish out what he set out to do. Alrek had been planning this with Stormborn for over a decade. The time must come now, the longer we wait, the more power that Lucius continues to hold. Do you really trust the word of an inexperienced fairy instead of a seasoned warrior?”  
The king stood there for a moment, pondering their words as he stroked his bottom lip. His brow furrowed as he stared at the map of the Isles and the Vales that sat between the four of them. Flags had been marked, seemingly distinguishing between friend and foe. Illia knew it would be better for her to walk away, but she decided to remain hidden in the doorway as she listened to their conversation. She wasn’t sure why she was listening; perhaps she was simply felt the need to stick her nose where it didn’t belong. However, it was more than that. She wanted to know when and where they would strike, what city would be the first to fall. Because as much as she tried to deny it, the Isles would always be her home, the people would always be her people. If they were going to suffer for her sake, she wanted to fully know how so she could work to remedy it later.  
“Has there been any word from my uncle?” Gerron finally asked, his mind seemingly made up. “Surely Gallows Reach has made up their minds.”  
“The Reach is slow to bend the knee to your leadership, m’lord.” Ol’Fellow replied, although his voice trembled a bit as he spoke. “The Plains clearly believes you are fit to be king, but Edgar has always been stuck in his way.”   
Edgar Roxenbury…Illia had heard the name before but knew little about the man behind it. The Roxenbury’s were never the type to submit any form of leadership. Gerron continued to think, absorbing the information Ol’Fellow had provided him with. Illia couldn’t help but admire the fact that he seemed to be a man slow to action.   
“The Vales cannot contribute to a war if our own people are not united. We need to strengthen an alliance with my uncle.” He continued “And the Brumelands, we must reach out to the Blackwaters. Ol’Fellow, I’m sending you and Lowcross to the north. Speak with my uncle, ask him if he would be willing to meet halfway between our lands. If he agrees, I will meet with him personally.”  
Ol’Fellow looked as if he were about to protest, but instead he stifled his concerns and simply nodded his head. The king raised a brow, but shot him a grin, appreciating the old man’s silence. The general seemed to appreciate the assignment.  
“Of course, my king.” Lowcross crossed his arm over his chest.  
“Good. We will tackle the Brumelands at a later time. General, ambassador, you’re dismissed.” Illia froze for a moment, but quickly moved, ducking around a corner so that she remained invisible from the exiting advisors. However, she moved back to where she had been lurking in the shadows so she could continue to watch the commander and Gerron speak.

The commander’s posture changed now that he was alone with the king. His shoulders relaxed; his irritation clearer. He let out a sigh as the king began to slowly chuckle. Gerron leaned against the table, his built shoulder more prominent as he crossed his arms.  
“I swear to Atria, I will hang that fool.” Eithor muttered under his breath “Why is he still on your council?”  
“Because he is one of the best warriors in the land despite his flaws.” Gerron replied “Tell me, Commander, how serious is this threat in the homeland?”  
“Enough to warrant a response.” The commander replied as he joined Gerron in leaning against the table. “The raiders are targeting you specifically, Gerron. The sigil of a gryphon has been appearing when their bodies are discovered.”  
“Bodies?”  
“Yes, we’ve found dead men, several of them. Normally in just small groups, but the sigil keeps appearing.” He seemed to be without any clue as to who or what was targeting his king. It was just another matter to complicate their already difficult circumstances. “It’s just another complication. More and more of them just seem to keep stacking.”  
“You seem agitated.”  
“I am agitated.” The mage finally shouted “This is a fool’s errand, Gerron. You’re attempting to take over a country we know nothing about. The people think of us as savage beasts, and we know nothing of the land. We are risking the state of our entire kingdom for the chance at gaining the Isles, not knowing if we’d even be able to rule it.”  
“All great rulers take great risks.”  
“But at what price, brother?” 

Brother? The young girl stood silent, making sure to silence her breathing. She had thought it a bit strange that the mage would so quickly drop his guard in front of the monarch but had assumed they were simply close. But the mage had not been included in the family portraits nor did he look anything similar to Gerron. What was more was that Gerron claimed all his siblings to be dead. Were they truly related by blood?  
“If Lucius continues in his rule, one where he continues to drive his people into poverty, where do you believe his lust of wealth will turn to next? As long as we continue to swear fealty to him then our country is obligated to had him our coin.” Gerron continued “Father knew all those years ago what kind of a man Lucius was. So, did Arnbjorn. This was going to happen well before our time. I inherited this mess just the same as I inherited the throne. I will finish what father sought out.”  
“And I will continue to follow you as I always have, Gerron.” Eithor replied although he clearly was not settled with the conversation. “Let me send my men to explore these raiders. We have to nip this in the bud, or we’ll all be in danger.”  
“We’re always in danger, little brother.” Gerron’s laugh was smug. The mage clearly did not appreciate it. “How has Lady Stormborn been adjusting?”  
“She seems to have figured her way about the place.” he replied; his tone unreadable. “I thought I might show her the library. I’ve seen her rereading the same novel for the third day in a row. I’m exhausted for her.”  
“You approve of her then?”  
“It doesn’t matter if I approve of her, Gerron. But she seems to be of good stock if that is your concern.” Eithor walked over towards the doorway, his eyes glancing in Illia’s direction for the slightest moment as he took a red apple from one of the decorative bowls that rested on one of the room’s many tables. For a moment, Illia felt her blood freeze, fearing that the commander had noticed her. Instead, he turned back to Gerron, taking a bite out of the fruit. “I do think you ought to speak with her more. She seemed to have quite a bit of knowledge about the Isles. It takes a keen mind for leadership to see our future challenges.”  
“So, you were paying attention to that conversation?”  
“Aren’t I always?” The mage replied as he chewed on the apple, his eyes ever fixed on an unseen thought. “She’s useful. Get to know your future wife.”  
“I haven’t the time nor the energy, brother.” Gerron replied “I’ll have plenty of time to know her once we’re married. I can’t afford any distractions right now. Keep her occupied. You seem good enough at it.”  
“Whatever you desire, my liege.” The mage rolled his eyes and gave an over-exaggerated curtsey as he made his way out of the room. Once again, Illia slipped around the corner, managing to avoid him. Moving quickly and as quietly as she could, she went down the opposite hall, carrying the shrill hope that she would be able to lead herself to a different corner of the castle. Instead, she was quickly met with an oak door. Without an ounce of hesitation, Illia opened the door, and quietly shut it.  
Inside, she was amazed to find walls lined with swords, daggers, and spears. Various pieces of steel, copper, and leather armor had been left in unorganized piles. Curious, the girl picked up a piece of the dark leather. Managing to hold it, she was surprised at how light it was despite its size. On a young man’s torso, it would have barely been an inconvenience to manage. She set the heavy piece back on the table, this time turning her attention to a white bow that hung on the wall. The short bow was heavier than she expected, but still a decent weight. Its white limbs had been treated with much love and care as they were sturdy, but able to give the slightest amount of give to it user. Black etchings lined the wood although she was not sure what the symbols meant. Drawing back the string, her right hand rested on the riser as her left effortlessly notched the string into position. She exhaled softly, remembering the first time her father had ever let her touch a bow.  
She had been nine, perhaps even ten when Arnbjorn had presented her with a short bow which at that time had been double her size. Of course, she had immediately wanted to start firing the arrows, but instead, the advisor had only allowed her to pull back the string. He had told her an arrow would be useless to her if she didn’t know how to draw the bow. For hours, she had stayed in the courtyard of their manor, pulling the string back until it became effortless, like breathing. Aiming was no issue; if you properly held your bow, you’d never miss your mark. 

“The armory is no place for a woman, Lady Stormborn.” Gerron’s voiced boomed as Illia allowed the string to relax in its normal position. Illia fought the urge to ignore his presence, or to point the bow in his direction. She wasn’t sure which one would infuriate him more. Instead, she set the bow back on the stand where it had been hanging before turning to respond to him.  
“There are many places where a woman should not be present, yet here we are, m’lord.” Illia replied, her tone cold but polite. “Were you able to resolve whatever disagreement you and your advisors were having?”  
“You heard that?”  
“Half the castle heard it.” Illia smiled, tracing her willowy finger across the table. She wondered how secretive a man Gerron was. “May I ask what it entailed?”  
“It was a disagreement in strategy between Commander Eithor and General Lowcross.” Gerron replied, making his way over to her. He leaned against the table, his hands resting on his knee. This was the most Gerron had spoken to her since she first arrived. Illia had been more than comfortable with his ignorance, but then again, it was also troubling. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in her, and like everyone else, he viewed her simply as a tool for his own personal gain.   
It was moments like this that she missed Antony. She missed reading his letters, missed his warm scent, and the way he had always put her at ease. He was the only soul who she felt she could be herself with. The longer she remained in the Vales, the more she was reminded of her loneliness. The longer she remained with Gerron, the more hopeless she felt.   
“Well, hopefully they can come to grips with the situation.” The girl’s eyes lingered once again over the bow, drinking in the beautiful craftsmanship with her icy stare.  
“Do you know how fire one?” The king appeared curious; his question genuine. Illia nodded, returning her eyes to the king. “I suppose it’s not surprising that a warrior like Arnbjorn would take the time teach his daughter basic fighting. The Plains has been known to produce some of the best archers in the lands.”  
“Archery runs in the bloodline. That was what my father always told me although I don’t believe I ever saw him fire a single shot.” Illia took a seat on a nearby stool which had been propped against the wall. She was certain her entire frame was hidden by the maroon gown she was wearing, but it was by far the warmest gown she owned. “I remember he had a sword; Endell, I think he called it. It hung in his study, just above the fireplace. I would often go there while he worked, and I’d imagine what kind of man he must have been in his youth.”  
“And what conclusions did you draw?”  
“I imagine what most children would think; that their father was a hero who fought dragons and other conquering villains. Did you imagine similar things of your father when you were a child?” Illia wasn’t sure why she was bothering to ask. It wasn’t as if Gerron sought out to know her; his very reason for being in the armory was to tell her that she didn’t belong there. The truth was she was simply looking for a friend, and at this point, she’d seek anywhere to find it.   
“No, I knew who my father was and his character. I suppose it’s different between men and their sons than with their daughters.”  
“Perhaps you’re right.” Illia’s heart sunk for only a moment before she once again retreated behind the mask. “Excuse me, m’lord, but as you said, the armory is no place for a woman.”  
With a tight smile and a small courtesy, Illia made her way out of the armory and out the hall. She wasn’t sure where she was going, not much less that she cared either, but she needed to get as far away from Gerron as possible before she burst into tears or lost her temper. She wasn’t sure which one would come first.   
She had gone out on a limb, had tried to reach to Gerron not as a king, but as a person. Once again, she had been met with a cutting reminder of how she was beneath him. She was starting to believe she that she should remain in her room until the appointed time when she would lay beneath the man when she slammed harshly into a familiar black mage. 

“Gods, I apologize, Commander. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking.” She fumbled over her words, straightening his jacket on impulse before she realized that she blatantly touching the mage. She sharply pulled her hands to her side, swallowing hard as the commander cleared his throat.   
“No worries, m’lady.” The Commander chuckled underneath his breath. “I imagine it’s difficult to pay attention when you’re eavesdropping on political conversation.”  
The blood rushed to Illia’s cheeks as her heart fluttered with embarrassment. Of course, he had known she was there. She could fool Gerron, but this mage was another matter. Somehow, she was going to have to learn how to play him, especially if she wanted to keep ahead of Gerron. On the other hand, she didn’t want to nor did she think the commander was easily fooled.   
“I apologize again, Commander. But with how quiet the castle is, shouting provokes curiosity. I’ll refrain from eavesdropping in the future.” The Commander was smiling at her, clearly amused by her snooping. He motioned for her to follow him, and slowly they found themselves walking side by side. They were quiet for a time, leaving Illia with a mountain of thoughts to sort through. However, one question kept repeating itself in her head.  
“Commander, might I ask you something?”  
“My lady may ask anything of me.” He replied, his tone cool and unreadable. Then, she finally laughed to herself. She may ask him anything, but he was under no obligation to answer. However, his response was likely to be better than Gerron’s.   
“You addressed Lord Greywind in such a personal matter. What is your relation to him?” It had been bothering her. Eithor was clearly related to Gerron in some way, but they shared no similar features, no titles; he was even treated differently by the other advisors. Was it some secret?  
“Lord Greywind is my brother, though not by blood.” he explained his tone stoic but not unkind. “I was adopted by the Greywinds when I was child. I grew up with Gerron and his siblings.”  
“I see.” Illia had never heard of such a thing happening among royals, let alone with someone who did not have royal blood. Unless… “Was it difficult being raised among royal? Or were you always raised as such?”  
“Are you meaning to insult me?” The mage stopped dead in his tracks, his gray eyes questioning. For a moment, Illia thought that she might faint. She had been so careful with her words, not wanting to directly ask him, but just trying to not sound a though she were making any assumptions.  
“I would never mean to insult you, Commander.” She finally said, feeling the grip of fear slightly loosen. “I only wish to understand you more. I meant no offense.”  
His met her eyes as if he were trying to see through any lie. For a moment, the girl couldn’t help but stare back, examining the way his gray eyes almost reflected silver in the light. His black lashes fluttered for a moment when he blinked until finally, he cleared his throat.  
“I apologize, Lady Stormborn.” He finally replied, his tone no longer hostile as he spoke. “There has been much sensitivity surrounding my adoption. Most do not comment on the topic unless they mean to insult me.”  
“I have no reason to ever degrade you, Commander. You are one of the most respectable people I have ever met.” Her words deafened the room as silence one again swallowed them. Illia wasn’t sure why, but she meant what she said. Eithor seemed different than most in the castle or had least given her the chance to speak. He was likely only following his orders, but it didn’t matter. The silence continued to linger for only a short second before the mage began to walk once more.  
“I was not always raised as a noble.” He finally said “The first five years of my life were spent in Erelyi. I was raised by a handmaiden named Eveline.”  
“Was she your mother?”  
“Of sorts. Eveline was simply a kind woman.” The mage seemed to mull over the memories of the woman. Illia wanted to ask him more, what was she like? Why did she raise him? However, she feared that he would shut her out once more. “She came with me to the Vales and continued to raise me for quite some time in Endur. Eventually though, she returned to her family. The rest of my training was carried out by Gerron’s late father.”  
“Your family in Erelyi did not want you.” Fury burned in Illia’s chest. “How cruel.”  
At that the mage started laughing. Illia flushed with embarrassment, fearful she had once again said something stupid. The Vale was beyond vexing. It seemed she could say nothing correctly so long as she continued to remain here. She prayed to gods that she would be able to learn how to keep up appearances here. However, the Commander continued to walk with a pleasant demeanor. Gratefully, she followed.   
“You honor me with your defense. However, I have no family to turn to.” The mage replied “I am a bastard. My father passed before I was born, and my mother died shortly after I reached two winters.”  
“I’m sorry, Commander.”  
“Don’t ever apologize, m’lady. I’m not sorry for my circumstances.” Eithor continued “Not many women are kind-hearted enough to take in an orphan, let alone when that child already shows signs of magical abilities.”  
“It’s just that one my very close friend in the Isles is a bastard. I’ve seen how many have used it to degrade and belittle him.” Illia’s mind lingered to Antony. It seemed bastards were not limited to the Isles. Everywhere, someone was working to suppress them for something they had no control over. They didn’t choose to be born out of wedlock no more than Illia had chosen to be born as a woman. “You must have great persistence and character to have made it to your position, Commander.”  
“If you mean to appeal to my ego-“  
“Are you always so suspicious of when someone praises you?” Illia finally laughed. This mage was mind boggling, leaving her constantly on her toes. Must he always make things so incredibly difficult? He glanced over her for a moment, his demeanor unreadable, but his eyes made it appear as though he were searching for the right words.  
“I just want to be clear, m’lady. I have no desire to play in any political games.” His words were cautious as though he were trying not to offend but to be clear that he would not be inclined to manipulation. “If we were to pursue some form of friendship, I wouldn’t like to believe that I had to watch my every word.”  
“That hardly sounds like a friendship, Commander.” Illia smiled. She felt inclined to tease him a bit, wondering what it would take to ruffle the mage’s feathers. “I was beginning to believe your sarcasm was why you had no friends.”  
He seemed surprised, his eyes lighting up at Illia’s response. His mouth gaped for a moment as he pondered what to say until he finally shut his mouth and kept a thin smile. They continued further down the green halls, turn down a thin corridor that led to a rounded archway. It was a part of the castle Illia had not explored. To her left, she saw another set of doors which were left open. From the layer of dust on the handles, she doubted they had been moved in quite some time. To her right, she saw set of curved stairs which seemed to lead up to one of the many towers.  
“Those stairs lead to my room if you were wondering. If you hear strange sounds, I’m likely working on something for Lord Greywind.” he said as he pointed to the staircase. “The spells I will be working on over the next several weeks will require concentration, so please do not disturb me unless there are dire circumstances.”   
With that he led her through the set of doors. The carpet had changed to dark wooden floors, lavished with intricate, maroon carpets. The commander raised his hands, his eyes flashing a bright lavender light for a mere second before they returned to normal. All at once, the sconces and hanging lights lit to reveal massive walls lined with books. An enormous fireplace exploded with flames before settling to a calmer setting. Above the fireplace was a bow and arrow set which had been attached to an armored plate. Surrounding it were several couches covered in gold and maroon pillows. Tables were covered in scrolls, spilled ink wells, and more books than Illia could ever hope to read in a lifetime.  
“However, if I had to watch you read the same book one more time this week, I believe I would have lost my mind.” Eithor was smiling at her as Illia stood with wide eyes and an open mouth. For days, she had been asking herself why she had not brought more novels with her as she journeyed to the Vales. It was amazing that she had not known that this room had been sitting beneath her nose.   
“I—I’m free to roam here?” Illia asked, barely able to force the words out. All she wished to do was touch every cover, to feel the familiar weight of heavy pages between her fingers.   
“You’re not a prisoner, m’lady.” The mage shot her a crooked grin, enjoying the sight of her amazement. “I figured this would be somewhere that you’d like to spend your time. And I would be nearby should you need a guard.”  
“Thank you, Commander.” A smile spread across her cheeks as she approached the shelves. Her fingers pressed against the spine of an unfamiliar book, but the warmth in her hands assured her to grasp it. The Lost Gods of the Vales, it seemed to be a book on the Old Gods. She wondered how much more this library held.  
“Enjoy yourself, m’lady.” The commander smiled as he dismissed himself, giving Illia the freedom to read as much as she pleased.

Three days had passed since the Commander had shown Illia the library. Three days and the girl had been all but absent from the other halls in castle. Every morning, she awoke to have a light breakfast before requesting some tea to be sent to the library. For the rest of the day, she would continue to read her books, gobbling up every page. Sometime in the afternoon, lunch would be sent to the room, but she never seemed to be able to put a page down. In total, she had already read three novels on the Vales, two on the Great Plains, and one on the Original Families. Most of it was knowledge that she was already aware of, but she had learned quite a bit about the different holds and towns. The pages had drawings of maps and sigils, showing the different houses. What had been the most interesting to read was that the original sigil of the Greywinds had been a gryphon. Somehow through the centuries, the image had taken on the shape of a raven. Not many households had made such an adjustment.   
Just as Eithor had said, his work kept him mostly occupied in his room although he had joined her once for lunch. However, she had vaguely heard any sort of strange sound coming from his tower. Instead, there had only been scents of licorice and sulfur. However, it mostly faded within the hour. Still his voice uttering various curses had echoed through the hall.   
That afternoon, Illia had been digging among the shelves only to discover a black book titled Slaves to the Three: The Indentured Servitude of the Occult to the Gods. Illia had almost moved on, but the title seemed to call to her. She had never thought of mages as slaves, but then again, she knew very little about magic. Settling in with her cup of tea, she cozied herself into one of the corners of the couch and began to read.

“Long ago, in the time between elves and men, the goddess Atria roamed the landscapes of the Vales alongside her brother and betrothed, Setrius. Together, the two formed the mountains and seas. Creation centered around the union of the twins. By their desire, they created the dawn of elves and men.  
One day, Atria was resting beneath the great willow tree when she was discovered by a hunter, named Cetrium. Entranced by the frailty of his mortal life, the goddess fell in love with the human. Every night, they secretly met under the full moon. Deciding that she no longer wished to be bound to her brother, Atria conspired to complete a ritual which would wed her to Cetrium while giving him the gift of immortality: Cetrium would become a god. Upon discovering her betrayal, the god Setrius grew vengeful, seeking to destroy the world of men until he was sealed away by Atria and Cetrium in the underworld.   
However, the hunter had never intended to wed the goddess. Instead, he sought to share his godhood with the realm of men. Shedding his blood, men and women of the Vales became the first to inherit the gift of the gods: magic.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Lady Stormborn?” A raspy voice disturbed Illia’s reading. Standing in front of her was Ol’Fellow, his white beard resting on the center of his chest. Dressed in green robes, the man appeared almost ancient.  
“It is an interesting concept, I must admit.” Illia replied politely although she wished the man would not disturb her. This book seemed to describe the gods differently than any other way she had been told. All her life, she had been taught that Atria created the stars and that Setrius had betrayed her. She wasn’t certain if this was fact of fiction. “Have you ever read this book, sir?”  
“Ah, yes.” Ol’Fellow said as he examined the familiar cover. “It is one of few that tells us the truth behind the purpose of mages.”  
“I thought all people had purpose.”  
“Yes, the gods have a will for us all, m’lady.” Ol’Fellow explained “But mages are a special case. If you would like, I could explain it to you. It would save you the trouble of reading.”  
“Reading is never a trouble, but I would like to hear what you know.” Illia replied with a smile before adjusting herself so Ol’Fellow could sit beside her. “Please, tell me what you know.”  
“Well,” Ol’Fellow began before breaking into a deep cough. He struggled for a moment before returning to his normal breath, motioning to a concerned Illia that he was alright. “As the book says, Atria’s betrayal of Setrius gave way to magic entering the world. But, what Cetrium did not foresee was the folly of man. Once given power, the mages began to war with one another for power. Atria tried to stop the inevitable, but the mages began to slaughter those around them. However, without her union to Setrius, she was unable to stop them.”  
“Is that why many fear mages?”  
“Some, but not quite.” Ol’Fellow explained, “Atria knew she need the help of her brother, so she gave him reign to leave the underworld. However, the mages had grown too powerful for any of them to control. Instead, they formed a blood right alongside Cetrium. In doing so, they were able to grant their blessing to whomever they pleased; however, all mages became slaves to the gods.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“When a human or elf is born, the gods decide if they will bestow their gift to them. Most of the time, they keep it within family blood lines although sometimes they will grant their power upon request. However, that requires a large sacrifice.” Ol’Fellow explained, searching for the best way to explain the will of the gods. “Atria and Cetrium are more inclined to give their gift freely which is why it is more common to find blood or healing magic. However, the mage is bound to the service of that god. Their magic will not be strong unless they have submitted their will to that of Atria or Cetrium.”  
Illia pondered this, wondering why then so many mages were able to do as they pleased. Did the gods not truly care about their slaves? Did they care at all? Sure enough, she asked Ol’Fellow this very question.  
“Every god is motivated by an emotion. Atria is motivated by compassion and fear. Cetrium by control and sacrifice. Say a blood mage uses his powers to control a guard; his will is in line with Cetrium.” Ol’Fellow began to stroke his beard as he spoke, coughing once more.  
“Where is Setrius then?”  
“Setrius is difficult to explain. Setrius is not motivated even by betrayal, but by birthright.” Ol’Fellow began “He-“  
“Is the only god motivated by sheer will.” Commander Eithor interrupted. His brow was furrowed at the old man, his gray eyes questioning his intentions. His usual black robes had been exchanged for a dark, riding jacket. He approached the pair as they continued to stare back at him. “Atria and Cetrium are more likely to allow their slaves to live their own lives. But one chosen by Setrius has a specific purpose, a goal for their master that they must fulfill.”  
“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Eithor?” Ol’Fellow challenged before he turned to Illia. “He’s a dark mage, did you know that? A servant of Setrius yet he dwells within these castle walls.” Every word was heavy with repulsion and cruelty. The girl was surprised to see it from the old man who had seemed to sincere when she had first met him.  
Illia looked over to Commander Eithor, her eyes sympathetic. It finally made sense now. The Commander was hated by advisors not because he was a bastard, nor a mage; it was because of the god he served. They questioned his motives, his loyalties. Eithor looked furious, his eyes flashing a shade of lilac as a wind began to form in the library. Pages of book began to shift, candles flickered for a moment before he once again returned to his calm demeanor.  
“You know that I forsook Setrius long ago.” The mage’s voice was dripping with venom, his fury only vaguely hidden. The reason for his rage seemed uncertain; was it simply the disgust in Ol’ Fellow’s words? Or did he never intend for her to learn the truth? “I belong to no god.”  
“Which is even more dangerous.” Ol’Fellow countered as he stood. “You are unpredictable. A mage left unchecked by the gods will only bring destruction. And no matter what you say, your desires will always belong to your master. You are loyal to Setrius, never our king.”  
“So, I’m dangerous if I serve a god, or if I am without one.” He gritted his teeth, balling his fist. The breeze returned to library, the flames growing more violent. Illia had finally heard enough. Standing between them, Illia stared Ol’Fellow down with an icy stare.  
“I believe I’ve heard enough for today, Lord Ol’Fellow.” She replied, “Your wisdom is most appreciated.”  
Ol’Fellow returned her stare, his eyes seeking to challenge her, but instead his arm crossed against his chest as he bowed to dismiss himself. “Take care, m’lady. I’m sure you’ll begin to understand our caution soon enough.”  
With those final words, Ol’Fellow dismissed himself from the library, disappearing behind in the hall. The wind calmed, the light once again returning to normal. Illia turned to Eithor who was still watching the doorway with a furrowed brow. Illia approached him, her blue eyes meeting his with a soft gaze. He returned her look, his eyes challenging her, waiting for her judgement.   
“Are you planning on riding today?” Illia finally asked, noting his coat and boots. He questioned the change of subject, not understanding her intent.  
“Yes. This is the perfect weather for it.” He finally replied, although he still questioned her.  
“May I join you then?” He let out a breath of relief, his eyes finally softening as he smiled. For a moment, Illia wanted to rest her hand on his arm to reassure him that she looked at him no differently. However, she fought the urge.  
“I would be honored if you would, m’lady.”


	5. Chapter Four

One Month Later…

Blood drenched the ice-laced mud as Gerron’s men continued to search the cold bodies that laid scattered in the village. The squishing of the mud rang loudly in Commander Eithor’s ears as he watched his men empty bags that carried little information. No letters, no orders, not even any personal effects; the bodies of the dead only contained the bare essentials for travelling. They had been tracking the party for quite some time, almost three weeks.   
Someone had tipped off one of their scouts that men with the same banners which at been found at the other decimated villages. The harsh landscape had given them the advantage for a moment. Snow and rain had mixed forming a heavy, bitter slush that made them more difficult to track as their prints quickly disappeared. However, the small village of Udenbur was directly north of their destination. The Commander and his men had travelled tirelessly to catch the raiders, and luckily succeeded in defeating them. It had been a bloody battle, but none of his men had been killed with only a few injured. It wasn’t often that they were able to celebrate such a victory. Still, it didn’t feel like much had been accomplished.  
A few of the villagers had been killed in the skirmish, and the commander still had no further information on where they might strike next. Finding a reason behind the attacks was even more of an impossibility.   
“Sir,” A skinny village boy stood in front of the commander. He was no older than fourteen, his mouse-brown hair slick with mud, blood, and slush. He smelled of horse manure, but then again so did the entire village. It was his attire that bothered the Commander more: his clothes were threadbare, filled with patches and holes. The fabric was so thin, it was no surprise to see the boy sniffling and sneezing. Opening a satchel that was attached to his twine belt, he feebly handed a coin pouch to the mage. “We wanted to thank you and your men for what you had done. We don’t have much, but it’s what we have.”  
Eithor accepted the pouch cautiously, weighing it in his hand. It likely had ten pieces, silver at the weight of it. At most, it would have bought a few loaves. The mage turned for a moment, searching for something off of his horse. It took a moment, but after some poking around, he found his prize. Turning back to the boy, he opened a brown blanket that he used for travelling. It was worn, relatively thin, but it would be better than what the child had. Wrapping it around the boy’s shoulders, the Commander kneeled down to look him in the eyes as he handed him back the coin pouch.   
“There’s no need to thank us.” He finally said before he called for his lieutenant. The soldier was quickly at his side. “Lieutenant, see to it that the bodies are buried. But tell the men to save the cloaks, boots, and valuables. We’re leaving them for the villagers.”  
“At your order, sir.” His lieutenant said, crossing his arm as he turned to alert the men to their new orders.   
“It’s not much,” The Commander said as his silver-gray eyes turned back towards the boy. “But it’s the best I can do for now.”  
“Thank you, sir.” The boy said before he quickly turned tail to inform the others of his village of the news. The Commander stood, once again surveying the damages from the battle. The scent of blood was still pungent amongst the smell of horses and dirt. He knew he should be glad, yet it seemed that he would be returning to Highreach empty handed. Gerron was unlikely to be pleased. ‘The village is safe, that’s all that matters.’ No doubt, Lady Stormborn would try to encourage him as she always did. He couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to her company once more even if it was only reading books around the library.   
“Commander!” The lieutenant was quickly making his way back to the mage, his footsteps quick but fumbling. “We found another one: alive!” The mage felt his jaw clench, and his fist move. Finally, they were getting somewhere.  
“Bring him to me. I will question him myself.”

The man kneeling before the mage was barely older than Gerron. He had been run through by a blade, but a bit of healing magic had sealed him up enough for Eithor to get some information out of him. This was the first opportunity they had had in capturing someone alive, and relatively unharmed. The mercenary was an older man with blond hair that had been ruined by a thick layer of mud, dirt, and blood. His smell left little to be desired, and his rough face had been ruined by fresh scars.   
His expression was repugnant, obviously in protest to any authority the commander carried over him. But he was clearly from the Reach. His thick, heavy accent made that abundantly clear. He knelt down, meeting the man’s brown eyes with his own silver gaze. He would break him; he was determined to learn the truth.  
“Do you know who I am?” Eithor asked, his eyes unwavering. Part of him hated what he knew was to come next, yet he couldn’t deny the thrill. It was chilling, but what was to come sent a wave of adrenaline through his bloodstream, making it harder and harder to control himself. It was his worst and most hidden trait. He didn’t enjoy the pain the soldier was about to endure; he enjoyed the rush of power that flew through his veins as the task was carried out. He hated himself for it.   
“The bastard brother of that pompous cunt, Gerron Greywind.” The soldier replied before he spit in the commander’s face. “You’re one of the damned.”  
The Commander slowly wiped the spit from his face, taking a moment to breathe before he roughly backhanded the soldier. ‘The accursed, the damned’, such terms were all to familiar to the mage. It was funny. The Vales would more than freely accept the aid of healers and even some elemental magics. But truly, his kind belonged nowhere. It was why so many of the magic-blooded had retreated to the sanctuary of the Brumelands. The commander had been tempted to join them more than once. However, that was where his god would seek him out; and he would avoid Setius’ will for him at all costs. A swift crack echoed in the air, and the man was obviously stunned by the sheer amount of strength the small mage had.   
“Now that wasn’t very polite now, was it?” he continued, “Good to know you have heard of me and my many titles. But I am curious, do you know what I am called by the enemies of Lord Greywind?”  
“Do you expect me to be intimidated by the likes of a weakling whose never held a sword in his life?” At that, Eithor drew his blade, stopping only a hair’s length away from the man’s throat. The sharpened steel barely scraped his skin, allowing several drops of blood to fall down the length of his collar.  
“No.” He sheathed the blade. “Men do not fear blades. Blades are simple things that are simple to understand. Men fear what they do not know, cannot possess, and cannot understand.” The Commander replied cooly. “Now, I’ll ask you again: what am I called?”  
The man began to breathe heavily, sweat lightly dripping down his brow. This was the cold, cruel commander whose silver eyes looked through men as though they were glass. There was more than one reason why Gerron kept him as a leader, and it had little to do with their family relationship.  
“The Devil Mage.”  
“Not my first choice in how I’d be recognized but after a while, it does have a bit of a ring to it.” Eithor’s voice grew colder. “Now, I’m sure that a well-educated man such as yourself is fully aware of the different types of magics. Just as many are aware that I am a dark mage, and yet I possess abilities that are beyond most who share my birthright.”   
At that, he stood, taking a step away from the soldier. A cold, looming chill crept throughout the area where the commander and his men stood. It was familiar to many who had been in his company for some time; and as it grew colder, the air became thicker and harder to breathe. But none struggled as much as the soldier, who was now gasping for air. His eyes searched for a soul to rescue him, but instead he was met by the commander’s gaze. But instead of the familiar, piercing, silver stare to greet him; he stared blankly into a black, soulless void. If none had known him, they’d have thought he was Setrius himself.   
The warlock continued to stare into the prisoner, drinking in that all too familiar metallic taste that flooded his senses when he just began to unleash his magic. The sound of the trees and the wind and the rain began to cease; all that echoed throughout his ears was the thundering sound of the soldier’s heartbeat. The scent of his blood washed over the mage as the sorcery began to take hold of its prize.  
“Yes,” Whispered the mage in an icy trance. “I can hear the flow of your blood, the pumping of your heart. Do you know what happens when your blood no longer feeds your flesh?” The soldier stared back terrified, sweat dripping as he struggled and heaved for air. “It becomes difficult to breathe.”  
The soldier suddenly fell, grasping his throat as he heaved for air. His skin felt as though it were on fire, the burn slowly spreading to the crown of his head as he choked. The pain was excruciating as he felt a slow cold spread throughout his limbs like ice. Spit felt from his lips as he pushed himself up on all fours but failed to stand any further as he slowly became dizzy. Some of the Commander’s men looked away in fear as the prisoner’s skin turned pale then faintly blue then a shade of violet.   
“Or when it suddenly returns, it can be quite painful.” The words fell from Eithor’s lips. The same rush of adrenaline flowing through his limbs as the desire to continue became stronger. Dark mages were feared because of their power; their sheer ability to turn their will into reality. They fed on the power and control of their enemies: The Commander was no exception to this. Ol’ Fellow had been right; he was more dangerous. He could not be controlled by anything but his own desires. All too often he felt out of control, struggling to maintain composure. Yet, it was freeing to give into the chaos.   
Tightening his fist, the mage allowed himself to indulge. The prisoner screamed as the air returned to his lungs only to find himself writhing on the floor as the sorcerer used his magic to crush and contort his spine. Tears drenched his marred face as he spat and cursed, begging for Eithor to stop. His cries echoed throughout the village, causing many of the townsfolk to pause and question. However, fear caused them to ignore whatever chaos the company was causing.   
The lieutenant watched in silence; his gaze ever fixed on the prisoner. He kept reminding himself to trust in his commander. The Commander had always been a fair leader, a good man. He did only what was necessary to keep the Vales safe and secure. These men had been slaughtering the villagers for weeks. Who knew how many men, women, and children this man had murdered? Still, he swallowed hard.  
Eithor struggled to breathe, feeling his power begin to reach its limits. He needed to stop, or he would lose control and kill the man. Slowly exhaling, he released his grip on the whimpering man, allowing peace to return to the air. Closing his eyes, he felt the adrenaline slip away, leaving him almost intoxicated but calm. When he opened his eyes again, the man was relieved to see his silver stare. The Commander once again knelt down to meet the man with cold eyes.  
“You will answer my questions.” It was a statement of fact that the prisoner nodded with in defeat. A corner of the commander’s mouth twitched, grateful that the man gave in sooner than others had. He knew it was a show that his men did not enjoy watching. Some would give him looks of suspicion after his investigations, causing the mage to doubt his leadership. Yet, he trusted in the knowledge that every single man in the company would fight at his side just as he had fought at theirs. “Whose orders are you and these men carrying out?”  
“A woman’s,” the soldier gasped as he tried to recover from the agony that still lingered “I know not her name, nor her master. But she gave the orders to my master some weeks ago. She is the righthand to the one who leads us. None have seen his face.”  
“Righthand?”  
“Aye. She and another man are the right and left hand of our new king.” The soldier said, spitting blood on the ground. Eithor glared.  
“Your king is Lord Gerron Greywind, firstborn son of Alrek Greywind.” he spat through clenched teeth, his anger betraying him. “Is that your goal? To create unrest to challenge our true king’s rule?”  
“Greywind is unworthy of the throne.” The prisoner retorted, regaining his malice. “He allows the Vales to suckle the teat of the Erelyi Isles, all for the hope of gaining power. Look at these villagers, starving, dying of disease? It took months before the king could part with his men to investigate. The gryphon will ascend to the throne and drive the raven to live amongst the crows.”  
“Your leader is a coward who murdered innocents to seek his own gain.”  
“Did I strike a nerve, mage?” The prisoner laughed “Too busy suckling at Greywind’s cock to see the true state of our land. All the power in the world at your fingertips, but you’re a bloody coward. You will die with him.”  
Rage…it was difficult to contain. The mage felt his blood calling him to kill the man, but denied the call. If he did, he would only be furthering his points in front of the men and the villager. He could not cause further challenge to Gerron’s rule.  
“Lieutenant,” he finally said “Lock this man in one of the cages. He will face the king’s justice in Highreach.”  
“Yes, Commander.” He replied with the familiar cross over his chest. Turning quickly, he ordered the men to bring around the wagon.   
“There is no justice so long as Greywind is on the throne.” The prisoner muttered, obviously exhausted from the day’s ordeals. “You’ll either see it or die, mage. I pray for your own sake that you do.”  
At that, the man was hauled away by some of the mage’s company. The Commander was surprised at the soldier’s final words. It wasn’t often that he received offers of prayer from the enemy. Then again, it wasn’t as though many were left alive to offer him such pleasantries.   
A wave of exhaustion suddenly fell over the commander. He struggled to keep steady, and he was met the familiar feeling of a nosebleed. Wiping the blood from his upper lip, he slowly began to move towards his horse. He knew better than to tap into those black magics, but his own body seemed of little importance. The Vales needed to be protected by any means necessary.  
Three Days Later…

The darkness of Illia’s room was crushing. It wasn’t to say she wasn’t comfortable. The weighted comforter kept her body blissfully entrenched in a pocket of warmth. It wasn’t as though she had awakened from a nightmare. No, it was because she realized that it had been over 2 months since she had left the Isles. Two months since she had last sent a letter to Antony, two months since she had spoken with Elena, two months and there had been no word from her father. Two months…and it was her name day. She didn’t feel different, although she supposed she wouldn’t. Another year older and it seemed to be the same as any other day. She doubted anyone knew that she had reached eighteen winters. Then again, it wasn’t as if it mattered.   
On her last birthday, Antony had sent her a copy of a book and a sincere letter. He must have planned it well in advance, knowing it would take several days before it would arrive in the Topal Bay. Elena had visited her, traveling the entire way so they could spend an evening in the small village that was north of the manor. They had danced for what had felt like forever. Now, it all seemed as if it was centuries ago. She was surprised how desperately she missed her friends. She had been parted from them in the Isles, but never so isolated as she was now.   
Slipping out of the covers of her bed, she moved to put on another olive robe. It had to be in the early morning; no soul had awoken. Taking a single candle, she decided to spend her morning reading in the library. It was simple to get there now. It seemed as though she had finally figured out all the twists and turns of the castle, including which towers led to the balconies. 

After lighting the fireplace and a few candles, Illia curled up on her usual corner of the couch, watching as the flames flickered. She thought of pulling out another book but didn’t feel like reading. Her mind drifted to the Isles, remembering how as a child she and Antony had ran throughout the Keep. The servants would chase after them, but the pair always managed to slink away. Her chest ached at the memory of it, and before she knew it, she felt hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She wondered how many letters Antony had sent her. Had he begun to believe that she was avoiding him? Surely her silence had been just as taxing on him.  
Being a child had been so much easier. She hadn’t spent all her time thinking of duty or war. Nothing but her friendships and father seemed to matter. After being in the Vales for so long, she missed the familiarity of Arnbjorn. No matter how cold his demeanor had been, she remembered how he always smelled of ink and sandalwood. She missed hearing him and Leif argue about how the house was ran. She missed…her home.   
Standing up, she walked over to a table covered in blank scrolls and ink wells. Maybe…if she couldn’t say these things to someone then she could write them. She wanted to write Antony a letter, to explain her betrayal. Maybe he would understand one day…

Antony,  
Long ago, you once asked me if it better to do what is right, or to make peace. I’m still not certain of the answer to that question. I know by now that you are aware of my father’s betrayal and my part in it all. I’m truly sorry. I never intended for you to come to harm.   
My father informed me of my engagement to Lord Greywind almost two years ago. I knew little of the plans to overthrow the crown; I had thought that he simply intended to keep our lands in the Vales. Looking back, I wish I would have told you, By the time I learned Arnbjorn’s intent, it was too late. I would be sent off to wed Gerron in a few weeks’ time. I feared what would happen to my family if I came forward with Arnbjorn’s intentions. Exile or execution, either way I would lose the only family I had left.  
There are many reasons why my father would intend to remove Lucius from the throne. The poor are beginning to starve, taxes in Erelyi continue to escalate, elves are captured and sold as slaves, mages are burned as outcasts; There is no denying that Lucius is an unfit ruler. But in truth, I believe it is because Arnbjorn is still loyal to your mother. He could never abandon the Lywenharts even when there were none left to protect. He couldn’t save Celene, but he could avenge her.   
I love you, Antony. You are my most cherished friend. I know that I am undeserving of your mercy, but I beg your forgiveness anyway. My only hope that through this you’d be safe and well,  
\--- Illia

Illia wept as she laid down the letter. The guilt was swallowing her, attempting to drown her in its depths. Over and over, she promised herself that this would be the last time she cried in the Vales. She was exhausted with being lonesome and sad. Shoving the feelings down, she swallowed hard, getting control of her breath once more. This would be the last time. Taking the letter, she walked over the fireplace. As much as she hoped to one day send it, it was too much of a risk to keep it. Tossing it into the flames, she turned back to her nook on the couch. The flames continued to flicker and dance, her eyes growing evermore heavy. In a matter of moments, she drifted into a relaxed slumber.

A cold hand touched her sleeve, awakening her from her rest. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Illia peered above her to see Gerron’s looming figure. His hair had grown slightly longer in the time she had been in the Vales, although she wasn’t certain of any other changes. He hardly spoke to her. At most, they shared quiet dinners. Well, quiet in a manner that included her eating in silence while Gerron continued to discuss battle plans with his advisors.   
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady Stormborn.” He said roughly “However, I was wondering if you would care to accompany me for a stroll in the gardens.”  
“Of course, m’lord.” Illia replied quickly, trying to adjust herself so she was more presentable. She had been such a fool: she should have returned to her room. She was certain that she appeared unpresentable before the king.   
“I’ll be waiting in the east wing. Feel free to take your time getting ready for the morning.” His eyes were almost kind, but he quickly dismissed himself. Only taking a moment to stretch, Illia quickly returned to her feet, making her way back to her room.   
With the help of one of the many female servants, Illia was dressed in a matter of minutes. Her raven curls had been quickly braided with a silver pin. The gown was a dark, navy blue with white embellishments. Quickly trying her cloak around her throat, the girl made her way to the east wing where Gerron stood waiting for her. His only change in clothing had been a black, fur cloak.   
“You look lovely, m’lady.” The compliment almost made Illia stop dead in her track. What game was he playing at? Illia maintained a face of stone, unwilling to share any sort of emotion with the man.   
“Thank you, m’lord.” Her voice was deadened, as cold as the mountains. Gerron offered her his arm which she ritually took as they walked through the halls towards the garden gates. 

The gardens surrounding the castle were still blanketed in a heavy layer of snow. The dormant trees were barren with hardly a leaf on the ground. Dried thickets with dead fruits lined the walkways. However, Illia could imagine what it must have looked like in bloom. The gardens in Goldenarch Keep were tame, always under control. This was not the case for the gardens in Highmark. The foliage would be as wild as its homeland. It reminded her of the gardens her father planted at their home. It seemed pieces of the Vales had followed him wherever he went.   
They continued to walk arm in arm in silence for some time. Illia dared not utter a word. From what she had overheard between Gerron and Eithor almost a month ago, she wasn’t worried that Gerron would forfeit their union. He wanted Erelyi. She was the key to his securing of the land.   
“How has your time been in the Vales, m’lady?” He finally asked. Illia felt the quiver of her temper, but it was quieted in a single breath. If he had bothered to know her even a little, he would have known the answer to the question. Eithor never bothered to ask her these sorts of things anymore. In fact, he seemed to be the only person in Highmark that bothered to speak with her at all. Still, Gerron was asking now. And part of her still wanted to pursue some type of a friendship if she was going to be forced to be his wife.   
“It’s been quite agreeable, m’lord.”   
“I’ve seen you’ve taken quite a liking to the library.” Gerron continued, either ignorant of her malcontent or just pretending it didn’t exist. “I’m glad it is finally getting the attention it deserves. It was getting to the point that I believed the Commander was simply going to convert it as an extension of his room.”  
“I do believe he would be inclined to do so.” Illia smiled slightly, thinking on how the Commander continued to join her when he wasn’t off on some mission. He had been gone these past two weeks; his time spent seeking out the rebels which had begun to threaten Gerron’s rule. Perhaps that was why she had felt so alone as of late. Without him, Illia had little the way of company. “Have you heard word on his mission?”  
“Yes, and he has been somewhat successful.” Gerron continued. “The men they tracked gave little information as to who has been behind the attacks in Highreach. But we were able to stop another attack, and no man was lost.”  
“I’m glad the people are safe. It’s not often we are privileged with such good news.” Illia felt a wave of relief. The attacks around the kingdom were becoming more frequent. She wondered how much longer the rebels would wait before they would attack the other provinces. The Plains were in the greatest danger. Although her father had a regent to look over the area, there was no one of there bloodline in charge. It could easily fall into enemy hands without proper leadership.   
“Yes. It is relieving to know that the commander is safe.” Gerron said, his green eyes peering at her. “I wasn’t sure if you were aware, but I heard that you had been told of my relationship with the commander.”  
“Your brother by adoption as I had heard.” Illia replied “Yes, I am fully aware.”  
“Commander Eithor is the only family I have left, Lady Stormborn.” Gerron replied “Although I do not share it with him, I’d prefer if he remained studying magics in Highreach. I do not wish to send him to Erelyi when the war begins. But he is strong-willed. Even if I forbade it, he would not remain in the kingdom.”  
“It seems strong-headedness is a family trait.” Illia quipped causing the lord to laugh.   
“I believe stubbornness can be found in the blood of every Valeman in this country.” Gerron continued. He crossed his arm for a moment, resting his hand on Illia’s for only a brief second before he returned it to his side.   
“May I ask, m’lord, but how did your siblings pass?” Illia asked. Gerron stiffened only to quickly relax.  
“I guess there is no harm in your knowing.” He replied, his voice a bellow. “Ivy had wed a gentleman in Erelyi. It was a brief marriage. My sister had struggled to bare the noble an heir. When she finally became pregnant, she died birthing the child. Neither she nor her son survived.”   
“Joriell…” Gerron seemed a lifetime away. Illia knew the feeling. She had been so young when her mother had died, she hardly remembered what she looked like. Yet, the void of her was still heavy. She could imagine how much worse it must have been to lose someone she had grown alongside. “He had been chased by bandits when he and his horse had fallen over a mountainside. We didn’t even get to burn his body.”  
Illia remained quiet for some time. Resting her thin hand on Gerron’s shoulder, she attempted to convey some sort comfort. Just as she was about to move her hand away, she was surprised at the feeling of Gerron’s hand rest atop hers. His palms were rough and battle worn. His hazel eyes met her ocean colored orbs for only a moment, looking at her with an unmasked expression. As quickly as it appeared, he was once again hidden under the veil that every noble born seemed the bear.   
“I like to think that Joriell would have supported the war effort. He was always so adamantly against Erelyi’s way of life.” Gerron continued, his tone changing so that he was lighter. “Is it strange for you to return to your homeland after so long? I’d imagine it would be a bit of a culture shock.”   
“Yes and no.” Illia began, “It’s strange. The Isles is much more communal. There were always people in and out of the keep or just in the town. The Vales seems almost empty. I’ve not grown used to it yet.”  
“It seems you’re just not in the right places.” Gerron replied, “Endur might not be the liveliest place in the Vales, but the quiet is peaceful and welcomed in comparison to Gallow’s Reach and the Plains.”  
“I suppose after a lifetime of war, peace is always welcome.” Illia replied. The war against Erelyi was not the first battle Gerron was known for. His family had always had to defend their territory against raiders and other criminal threats. Even as a child, Gerron had been in the middle of the Great War with Erindelle. “Then where, sir, would you go to have fun?”  
“Fun?”  
“Yes. Amusement, recreation?” Illia replied “I find it hard to believe that you simply brood all day.”  
Gerron’s laughing was booming. The king linked his arm once mores with Illia, resting his hand on her hand. Illia felt herself stiffen at his touch but forced herself to relax. He was going to be her husband eventually. She might as well get used to his touch.  
“I’m an old man. I do not seek out adventure as I once did.” He replied, eyeing her cautiously. “Although I have joined the soldiers every so often in the local tavern. However, you might find more young women at the bath house.”  
“I expect you believe I shall search them out there?”  
“I’m sure that the commander becomes rather dull after some time. It would do you well to make friends with those of your own sex, don’t you think?” Gerron quipped. “I can hardly stand being in a castle all day with a bunch of old men. I can’t imagine how you feel about it.”  
Illia wasn’t sure if she felt offended or amazed. She was surprised Gerron thought anything at all about how she felt in this entire ordeal, although part of her wondered if it was simply to get her out of his and commander’s hair. She pondered if the mage felt the same way. Surely it was frustrating having to spend his days watching over her. Of course, they had always had pleasant conversations, but he had to have been attending to other things before she came along. What if there had been other friends whom he longed to see? She cursed herself; her presence was such an inconvenience.   
“I could take you there if you like?” Gerron offered, suddenly breaking her from her thoughts. “It’s been quite some time since I last went into town.”  
Illia smiled. It was the first time that Gerron had offered to show her anything in the Vales, or had even requested to spend some quality time together. It wasn’t as though she was thrilled at the idea of being his wife, but perhaps there was still hope for the friendship she longed to have.   
“I would like that very much.”  



	6. Chapter Five

The Commander and his men encroached upon their city, careful to not draw too much attention to their company. Eithor was certain that many of the townsfolk had heard the challenges and slaughter that had been taking place in the surrounding villages. The last thing they needed to hear was that there was a group of radicals that sought to remove Gerron from the throne. He needed to report the information to his superiors before his men began singing battle songs.   
“Argos,” The Commander motioned for his lieutenant. Argos was older than Eithor, although only by a couple years. Yet, the man never seemed trouble by receiving his orders from the young commander. Clean shaven with slicked back hair, the lieutenant was adorned with sharp, clean features. And thankfully, he never questioned the Commander’s orders. “I’ll take one man to deliver the prisoner to Lord Greywind. In the meantime, tell the men to meet at the tavern later tonight after some respite in the barracks. The first round is on me.”  
“Yes, sir.” Argos replied with a smile. With a sharp whistle, the Lieutenant began to make his way towards the barracks with the remainder of the men. Bringing with him a single soldier and the prisoner, the young mage made his way towards Highreach.   
When he arrived at the castle gates, he was struck by how dreary the keep seemed to look these days. When he had first arrived at Highreach’s doorstep, he had been struck by the sheer beauty of Endur. The castle had been built deep into the mountain; the city seemed to have grown there. Some of the lush green clung to its stone walls, the city was still filled with life despite the struggle to remain. Now, it seemed to be a tomb instead of a home.   
“Take him to the cells.” The Commander ordered his man. “I will speak with the king.”

The Commander entered the palace to find no greeting other than the stoic stares of the castle guards. It wasn’t surprising. He was used to the keep having an empty greeting. However, as he turned to make his way towards the war room, he was met with a familiar voice.  
“Commander!” Illia’s smile somehow managed to light up the room. Even the young commander could not resist returning her gladness with a crooked grin. It was strange for the mage to be greeted so warmly, but it felt…nice. “I’m so glad you’ve returned unharmed.”  
“Lady Stormborn, you’re too kind. I see you are looking well.” The mage replied, being sure to keep his tone neutral. It would be inappropriate for him to be too familiar with the future queen. It was difficult to view her as such though.   
When Gerron had first informed him of his intentions to wed Arnbjorn Stormborn’s daughter, he had believed he was joking. A young noble girl raised in the Isles would hardly be a fit queen for the Vales. Upon seeing her for the first time, he had been stunned that she was a full-blooded Valeman at all considering her shocking appearance. In all his years in the Vales, he had only met one woman with black hair. But even her eyes had been a muddy shade of brown. What was even more interesting was her demeanor. She managed to put on a strong face despite the fact that she was in foreign country and obviously seasick. And beyond even that, she hadn’t complained once the entire time she had been there although she had plenty of reason to do so. Instead, she had spent most of her days reading about the library and attempted to learn as much as she could about her homeland.   
Every single book she had picked up were stories of the Original Families, the blood lines of the lesser lords, the etiquette in the different regions, and the struggles that each hold faced. All of her time had been dedicated to gathering as much knowledge as she could towards her future role. Gerron had hardly given that much time to study.   
What had truly won the Commander’s respect was her handling of Gerron and his advisors. Her first day, she had not only tamed General Lowcross in a manner that was polite and sharp tongued, but she had also stood her ground against Gerron. So long as she gained the confidence to do so, she could be a very strong leader.  
“How had the library faired in my absence?” he asked knowing full well that she had probably spent every waking moment there.   
“She’s been a bit lonely, but I’ve been keeping her company.”  
“I was wise to leave her in your company then.” She smiled once again. Her presence seemed to give warmth to Highreach. He wondered if it would be the same in Endur. Would the people accept her, or would they question her as a foreigner?  
“Can you tell me if you discovered anything, or is it to remain between the king and his advisors?” She question was innocent, merely a curiosity with a willingness to be turned away. Eithor took a moment to deliberate what information he could share, if any.  
“Our men survived, and we managed to bring a prisoner for questioning. However, we haven’t learned much more than what we previously did.” He finally decided “All we know is that someone is against Gerron. However, I don’t believe it will survive much longer than this.”  
“And the village?”  
“They lost many of their men, but I believe they will be able to return to their proper footing.”  
“I’m glad.” She replied. She looked different today. Her curls, although it was clear that there had been an attempt to tame them, were falling lose from their braid. Her dark, navy dress made her eyes seem brighter, although her cheeks were flushed as though she had just returned from being out in the cold. “I should let you return to your duties.”  
“Yes, Lord Greywind will be expecting me.” The Commander cleared his throat. “Good day, Lady Stormborn.”  
Illia curtsied, watching as Commander Eithor took his leave. 

There was something comforting about the war room. A rounded room, the stone walls had been decorated with the sigil of the Greywinds; the silver raven. All his life, the mage had spent time studying the Original and Great Families. Each house had been adorned with its own sigil: The silver raven to the Greywinds, the red axe to the Roxenburys, the golden star to the Blackwaters, and the blue arrowhead to the Stormborns. For a long time, he had wondered if his line would ever carry its own sigil. However, it was only within his father’s right to grant him his name:Eithor’s father never lived to see him born. In the grand scheme of things, he was always meant to be alone. No woman would ever marry a bastard, nor did the Commander wish to pass that along to any willing female. If magic hadn’t already cursed him to emptiness, then being a bastard surely did.  
He had always considered escaping to the Brumelands. There he would have been fully accepted in the Vales. There would be no consideration of his origin, nor his magic. In fact, it had been his plan to leave. Yet, when Ivy died, he couldn’t bare the thought of leaving his adopted home. His feet became even more fixed in their position when Joriell passed only a short time later. Gerron was alone. But when the war with the Erelyi Isles passed, the mage believed he would make his retreat. Gerron would have a wife with children soon to follow. It wouldn’t make sense for him to remain there any longer. Of course, then, he would likely have to face his god. But hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.   
“Commander, what news do you bring for me today?” Gerron entered the room, still dressed in heavy walking boots, yet his cloak had been tucked away. Curiously, his features were just as rosy as his betrothed. Irritated, he ignored this, choosing to focus his attention back to the matter at hand.  
“A prisoner. We apprehended him after the skirmish in Udenburg.” The Commander began, “There seems to be a bit of a rebellion building.”  
“I take it you questioned him then.” Gerron muttered, stroking his bearded chin as he often did when he listened to his advisors. Leaning against one of the walls, he hung to every word as the Commander relayed the information to him. The king remained quiet, nodding and mulling over the knowledge Eithor had gathered. It wasn’t until the mention of the female leader that his eyes lit up. “A right and a left hand? I’ve not heard of such a thing since our great grandfather’s days.”  
It was true. In the old tradition of the Original Families, every lord had selected a right and a left hand. These two leaders served different purposes: the right hand maintained order amongst the leader’s armies. It was their job to relay war information, but also to maintain relations with foreign entities. The left hand was the voice of the people. Often, the left hand would serve as the judge in civil cases. Typically, the people helped to decide who the left would even be. Both would serve as the voice of the king. However, what made a right and left hand was so powerful was that if the king wanted to write something unethical into law then they could stop it by claiming “The Right of Three Kings”. Once this was called, a king was unable to pass their judgements. However, both the right and left hand would have to step down if such a right was ever claimed. It was an old system; one that kept the king in check. For obvious reasons, it had been abandoned by leadership. Instead, a council of advisors had been adopted as the new common practice. It was strange for something so ancient to return.   
“I believe whoever is seeking to challenge you, seeks to challenge the leadership of all the Originals.” He replied “This isn’t just an act of war against our people, Gerron. They seek the entirety of the Vales.”  
“Their structure is more revealing of their intent.” Gerron stood straight, making his way to the central map of the Vales and Erelyi. His eyes scanned over the landscapes and rivers decorated in great detail across the stone. “They are challenging not the individual families, but the change in our leadership. They want us to remain in the old ways.”  
“Then it is likely they would keep the Original Families if they submit to their rule.” The mage muttered, his mind wandering as to what to do. “Why then would they specifically target Highreach?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Gerron,” The mage stood frozen for a moment “Do you think they know that you intend to take over the Isles?”  
“I can’t imagine they would. As far as the people are aware, Illia Stormborn is remaining with us as a guest as she handles matters between our family and the plains. It’s not unusual for extended stays among royals.” Gerron replied, “It might be that I am openly seeking sole control of the Vales.”  
“I see.” Eithor replied, although he was not settled on the matter “Then I guess our next step is to simply discover who is leading this rebellion.”  
“I agree. Your men will continue to take care of this matter.”  
“Yes, m’lord.” 

Illia tossed another log onto the library’s hearth. The castle was chilled to the bone, but the young girl was determined to be warm. Her mind was still thinking on her time with the king. Although she was still hesitant about their marriage, she was slightly excited at the potential of spending more time together. Perhaps there was still hope that they might be friends.  
“Lady Stormborn,” A small voice called from the doorway. The young maid, Freya, stood before her with a tray of tea and honey. “Where would you like to take your tea?”  
“Oh, thank you, Freya.” Illia replied, “Feel free to set it anywhere. I’m not too particular.”  
“Of course, m’lady.”  
“Freya,” Illia’s mind mulled to Gerron’s comment about making female friends. Perhaps he was right. She could try at the very least. “How did you come to live in Highreach? Is your family in Endur?”  
“My father owns a small farm just outside of Endur.” Freya replied, her cheeks lighting up as she described her family. “My mother will often come into town to sell their goods, and my brother works as a farmhand. I wanted to stay, but my mother encouraged me to take the position in Highreach. There would be more opportunities for me to grow.”  
“Do you miss them?”  
Freya nodded a moment, but still managed to smile. “I miss them very much, but I get to see my mother most days, sometimes my brother comes with her. But I love my life in Highreach. I’ve learned to much here about etiquette, and the other servants are quite kind.”  
“I’m glad you are happy here.” Illia said, turning towards the couch and taking a seat in her usual corner. “Sit with me.”  
Freya obliged, joining her by sitting politely nearby. However, she was careful to keep the proper amount of distance between herself and the noble girl. Illia was quiet for a moment, her mind growing melancholy as she yearned for the closeness that she and Elena once shared. It was in conversations like this that she would embrace her or take her hand and lead her to trouble. It was strange to miss the sensation of affection from a friend. But, she quickly tossed the thought aside, reminding herself of her promise to remain positive as she continued her time in the Vales.  
“Are you happy here, m’lady?” Freya suddenly asked before quickly catching herself. “I’m sorry, I believe I overstepped my-“  
“I take no offense, Freya.” Illia began. “I am becoming happier as I remain here. I missed my father quite a bit. And the friends that I had in the Isles. But, I like the Vales. I hope to get the chance to explore my country more.”  
“I think everyone has enjoyed your presence, m’lady. Even the Commander seems to be more approachable when you’re around.” Freya replied “And the king likes you.”  
“What?”  
“I catch him taking glances at your when you’re not looking.” Freya giggled, biting her bottom lip with joy as she got to whisper her little secret. “I think most of the men do.”  
“I wish they didn’t.” Illia replied with a smile “I guess I just prefer the company of books.”  
“Of course.” Freya said with a smile “It might be foolish of me, but I’ve always longed to catch the attention of men as you have. But I could also see where it would lead to trouble.”  
“You’re not wrong.” Illia replied, choosing her words carefully. “My friend once told me that ‘Beauty is by its very nature the greatest weapon and curse of a woman.’. With the right words and fluttering eyes, a woman could have anything she set her mind too. Men would conquer kingdoms to claim her. But, beauty fades. Eyes will drift to other beauties. I’ve never wanted that kind of life; to fade from existence as my hair turns white or my skin grows wrinkled.”  
“Is that not the purpose of love then, m’lady?” Freya questioned. Illia questioned her a moment; her eyes almost confused by her meaning. “I’m not familiar with customs in Erelyi, m’lady. But in the Vales even royalty marries out of love.”  
“No such thing exists in the Isles.” Illia replied, “If one learns to love their spouse, they are considered lucky. Marriage is an arrangement to keep the bloodlines pure and to gain power. Beyond that, I am the only in my family, and I am a woman. I must marry someone who will continue the Stormborn legacy without our name.”  
“I do not see why you cannot carry on your own name.”  
“Neither do I.” Illia laughed. Freya longed for her beauty, not realizing that she was a treasure as well. Her thin nose, freckled features, and doe eyes were beautiful in their own right. She hoped she found a good husband; she seemed like a good girl. “I suppose you must return to your duties.”  
“I do believe so, m’lady.”  
“Well then, I won’t keep you.” Illia replied with a smile “I hope we get to talk more like this, Freya. Perhaps we can be friends.”  
“I would like that very much, m’lady.” Freya said with a smile before she curtsied off. Illia grinned, moving to take a sip of her tea. The warm liquid was as delectable as always, soothing her throat and warming her quicker than the fire could. There was a subtle hint of blueberries that caught her off-guard but it was a pleasant enough that she didn’t mind. 

Moving along the shelves, Illia examined to see if any title stuck out. Nothing seemed to. She was certain she would have to find something else to do with her time, or she would be forced to ask the Commander for a recommendation. Not that she doubted his taste, but she couldn’t deny that even she was growing tired of simply reading all day. Picking a novel at random, she returned to her seat. Taking another sip of tea, she only managed to open the cover when she heard a knock from the archway.  
Ol’Fellow stood in his gray robes, obviously uncomfortable with meeting with her. Illia motioned for him to come in. The old man entered the room, sitting beside the girl. Shoulders slumped; he twiddled his thumbs as he tried to find his words.  
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, m’lady, but I hoped I might be able to speak with you.” He began, his mouth dry. “I wanted to apologize for sucking you into squabbles between advisors. I overstepped my boundaries.”  
“I do not need the apology, it was Commander Eithor who bore the insult.” Illia replied, her words sharper than she intended. Her mind suddenly felt uneasy; a headache beginning to spread from the crown of her head. Everything began to feel warmer.   
“Yes, the Commander is…difficult.” Ol’Fellow began, “Do understand, m’lady, I’m not against the realm of magics. I believe they are a blessing to us all. But they should not be leaders. The kingdom will never be their first priority; it will always be their master.”  
Illia felt rage rush to her chest. Her heart was pounding, but it was unnatural. She knew she was angry, but she wasn’t sure why her body was reacting this way. Her palms felt damp; her fingers beginning to turn cold. “The Commander belongs to no master.” It was all she could muster to say.  
“Yes, however, what the Commander has done is unnatural.” Ol’Fellow continued, completely oblivious to Illia’s souring condition. “Setrius may be reclusive and in many ways dangerous; dark mages are proof of that. But his actions can be gaged. Eithor is not tied to his master. His is a being with the power of a god, now free to do whatever is within his will. No man should have that kind of power.”  
Illia began to cough, but she would finish her thought before she retired to her room. This matter needed to be settled, and she would not rest until it was.  
“Every man had that kind of power. Lord Greywind has thousands of soldiers at his command. With a whim, Lucius has nearly bankrupted the Vales, and executed his wife—no trial, no contest.” Illia began “However, you and the General have damned Commander Eithor in both respects. If he is tied to his god, then he cannot be trusted because of his loyalties. But if he has no god, he cannot be trusted because he is powerful and will act in his own will. He is in the same position as you, yet you damn him for being what he is.”  
“M’lady-.” Illia began to cough once more, ignoring the old man’s interruptions. She was not finished, and she’d be damned if she was interrupted with yet another ignorant excuse.  
“It is not concern or fear you carry, Lord Ol’Fellow: it is hypocrisy.” Illia finished before she once again began to cough, her throat becoming drier, and her body switching between chills and waves of heat. Her head was spinning. “For your sake, I pray you see the difference.”  
“So, you will defend him?”  
“I will defend what is right, m’lord.” She replied, catching her breath. “Commander Eithor has returned from his mission with all of his men unharmed. A village is secure, and we now have information on raiders which have been attacking the people. And I doubt that is not all he has done in his career. Look to his deeds, m’lord. He has more than proven his loyalty to the Vales.”  
“Very well, m’lady. I will think on your words.” They both stood, ready to give their final good byes when Illia stumbled. Her eyes became spotty with colors as she tried to catch her breath. But the air felt thicker. It was becoming even harder to breathe. “Lady Stormborn, are you alright?”  
“I don’t know-“ A harsh, throaty cough broke from her lips as Illia rushed to cover her mouth. When she moved it away, blood was spattered across her palm and clothes. Ol’Fellow grew wide-eyed, seeing her nose begin to bleed as she struggled to breathe. She sucked in a breath for only a moment before she suddenly collapsed.  
“M’lady!”

Ol’Fellow’s cries broke throughout the halls, disturbing Gerron and Eithor as they made their way back towards the mage’s room. They shared a glance for only a moment before they began to run towards the library. Arriving at the room first, Eithor paused only a moment to see Ol’Fellow hovering over a fainted Illia. Blood smudged her gown and lips, her limbs trembling as she struggled to breathe. The Commander felt as though he had swallowed a brick, the copper taste of fear filling his mouth. Terror lingered for only a moment before his reaction cut in.   
Seeing the tray of teas, he tossed out some of the liquid to smell the cup. A fragrant floral smell caught his attention: larkspur. Rushing to Illia’s side, he pushed a panicking Ol’Fellow out of his way. Her hands felt like ice, yet she looked as though she had broken out in a fever. At that moment, Gerron raced into the room.

“Ol’Fellow, what happened?”  
“I don’t know my king, we—we were just talking—”  
“Poison.” Eithor said, relieved that Illia was still breathing. Without wasting another moment, the Commander cradled Illia is his arms as he lifted her up and rushed towards his room with Gerron at his heels.  
The mage’s tower was relatively small but clean. Books were scattered about amongst scrolls and spells. A bed was cornered next to the room. Moving quickly, the mage set the girl onto the bed before making his way over to his table and shelves full of herbs and elixirs. Eithor wasn’t sure if his fingers could move any faster, his fingers rushing around as if they were under control of another being as he searched for what he needed.  
“We can’t lose her.” Gerron was angry, his voice thick with malice. Failure was not an option. “I need her if this take over is going to happen.”  
The mage ignored him, finally mixing all the ingredients he needed. White flora, elderberry, and snowbells: the flora was quickly grinded and mixed with a purple, lavender wine as Eithor began to mutter words that Gerron could not understand. The same thrill rushed over the mage’s senses as his palms filled with a lilac glow. Pushing Gerron out of the way, he moved over to Illia and lifted her cold body into a near sitting position as he pressed the grinded cup to her lips. Almost completely unconscious, she only managed to swallow a little of the liquid before she began to cough blood once more. Her eyes fluttered open for only a moment; the whites of her eyes bloodshot.  
“Illia, you have to drink this.” He silently begged, pushing the cup to her lips once again. She tried to nod but instead chose to save her strength as a horrible gulp rushed into her mouth. It tasted putrid, and made her want to vomit, but she obeyed the Commander’s desperate eyes. Slowly, the color started to return to her pale flesh, but exhaustion overtook her. She was fast asleep within moments.   
“Will she be alright?” Gerron asked, his scowl at the commander’s back. The mage flexed his jaw, struggling with the overwhelming urge punch his brother. Of course, he knew that Illia was essential for the alliance. By the gods, he had been urging him to pursue her for that very reason. Instead of worrying about his precious ascension to power, he needed to be concerned over the condition of his future bride.   
“She will recover, but she will remain in my quarters for the next few days so I can watch her condition.” he began, “Larkspur typically is not a largely available poison. I suggest questioning the kitchen staff. It was delivered through her tea.”  
“You’re bleeding.” Eithor wiped his nose, seeing that he had once again had overused his magic.   
“I’m fine. I just need to rest.” The mage replied as he grasped a chair and sat beside Illia as she slept. “I would call for a maid. She’ll need changed. I don’t know how long before she wakes.”  
Gerron nodded, taking his leave. He sighed, taking Illia’s hand once more. She still felt slightly cold, but her pulse was strong. Relief washed over him. Taking a breath, he relaxed. It was terrifying to think about; any longer and she wouldn’t have survived the poison. He had almost lost her.   
He swallowed down the thought, choosing to ignore the terror and the trembling of his hands. She would survive. She swallowed enough of the antidote; his magic would work. That was what he kept telling himself, although the heavy feeling of fear still clung to his gut. Exhaustion fell over him in a wave. He had hidden it well, but the mage had been running adrenaline for three days. His use of his magics had been taxing, but then again, they seemed to be doing so every day. Then again, it would only be a matter of time until he wouldn’t be able to call upon them at all.  
The General and Ol’Fellow had criticized the mage’s decision for years. Most of his life, his father and siblings had been advised never to trust him. All because he was a mage. In most people’s mind, he was a weapon for Setrius. But now, he was no longer that, and he was questioned as well. When the mage had first cut off his connection to his god, he had been surprised the amount of strength he initially possessed. His magic was more tumultuous at first, almost unstable. However, he once again gained control. His spells now were lethal, extremely powerful. Yet, it was not going to last. Although his spellcasting could not be matched, it was running out. With his connection Setrius broken, he had cut off the ultimate source of his magic. Many, including Gerron, did not realize that he was weakening. For all his knowledge and talent, he was losing the ability to even summon a spell. Each time he did, he felt his body becoming more and more drained. Nose bleeds, headaches, and spells of exhaustion were becoming more and more frequent. He was sure it would get to a point that he would have to tell Gerron, but for now he would keep it his secret. In the meantime, he had been spending his time searching for another way to draw his magic; there had to be another conduit he could use.   
Illia stirred, breaking him from his thoughts. Her breathing was still irregular, but the color was returning to her cheeks. The warmth of her hand was beginning to feel normal. So, it seemed she was a target now. The mage knew he would have to watch over her more closely now. Resting her hand to her belly, Eithor began to relax into the seat that he had sat beside her. He would not leave her side again; he would be sure of it. 

Blue eyes drank in the surroundings of the rounded room. Her hips and legs were warm, feeling heavy under the weight of a fur blanket. Illia felt as though she had been sleeping for days. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, save the nighttime sky that shined through a glass window. The pain in her throat and skull had finally ceased, yet she still felt weak. She couldn’t remember much. There had been words between herself and Ol’Fellow. Then the taste of blood…it still lingered across her tongue. She slowly sat up on her elbows, feeling an unfamiliar weight on her hand. To her left, the Commander had dozed off his head slumped on her hand as if he had been holding it throughout most of the evening.   
He looked peaceful…  
Most days, the mage carried himself throughout Highreach as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. His brow always seemed furrowed, his mind consistently thinking of what the next plan was. The sound of his breathing was relaxing; she hadn’t realized how much she had missed the familiarity of him being close by. His hair hung just above his black lashes, and the girl instinctively moved to brush the stray strands away from his face. He shuffled slightly although not enough to awaken his grip on her other hand slightly tightening. She felt her heart begin to flutter beneath her chest, a feeling of butterflies entering her stomach. Blood rushed to her cheeks, and Illia quickly gasped, internally yelling at herself for having such thoughts about the Commander. The sharp intake of air tickled her raw throat causing her to cough violently.  
“M’lady?” Eithor was up in a flash, his eyes focused on the girl with more intensity than she anticipated.  
“I—I’m fine.” Illia replied between coughs until she finally settled “I apologize, Commander. I didn’t mean to startle you.”  
The Commander was quick to straighten his attire, standing up straight and poised although it was obvious that he had not intended to fall asleep. Running his hand through his brown strands, Illia couldn’t help but note his supple lips and Roman features. She cleared her throat, focusing on the pain that still lingered as she pushed aside her thoughts.   
“Are you alright?” he finally asked her, his eyes heavy from exhaustion and worry.   
“I believe so. I’m rather tired I’m afraid.” Illia replied, biting her bottom lip. “What happened?”  
“You seemed to have consumed quite a bit of larkspur.” The mage began, pacing about his room as he stroked his bottom lip. Choosing to ignore him as he muttered under his breath, Illia finally took a moment to see wear the illusive Commander retreated to. The entire room was made of a gray stone, although some type of eccentric rug had been thrown on the floor as some type of decoration. There was a small fireplace on one side of the rounded room with a small chair and books nearby. The walls, though, were covered in a variety of hanging dried herbs, flowers, and hanging pages with different types of plant and animal anatomy. It was somehow cluttered and messy, but it seemed every object had a precise place so it could be immediately found. “Although it’s deadly, larkspur is very detectable. It seems who ever aimed to kill you wanted it to be very loud.”   
“Loud?”  
“They were trying to make a statement.” The mage continued to mutter, his eyes now fixating on the hearth. “Someone is trying to make a fool out of Gerron; they wanted to use you to do it.”  
“Do they know about our arrangement?” Terror flooded Illia’s chest. Her mouth tasted of blood and metal, her heart pounding like a drum. Arnbjorn…was Arnbjorn safe? 

“I’m not certain.” He began, turning until he saw the fear in Illia’s eyes. Wide-eyed, she sat silently, her mind racing at the thought of her father coming into harms way. He was completely alone in the Isles. If he was discovered, he would be slaughtered. If he died, it would have all been for nothing: Illia would have sacrificed everything for nothing. The Commander sat upon the edge of the bed, lifting her chin unexpectantly. “I’m sorry, m’lady. I should have done a better job protecting you. If it had been any longer-“  
“Commander, you saved my life.” Illia interrupted. “If you hadn’t-“  
“You almost died, Illia!” Eithor snapped, his jaw and fist clenched. His silver eyes quickly changed, recognizing his lack of etiquette. “I apologize for my misconduct, m’lady. I overstepped my-“  
“Commander-“ Illia interrupted, her eyes gentle and firm. “Please, do not apologize to me. I am alive because of you. And with all the title—I’d rather we be friends, free of titles. Please, refer to me as Illia when we are free to do so.”  
The Commander nodded for a moment; his eyes lost in some kind of thought. He rested his hand on hers for only a moment, feeling that the warmth had returned to her hands. For a moment, Illia thought she saw his irises change from silver to a lilac color as he examined her veins.  
“You should get some rest, Illia.” He finally said, his silver eyes meeting hers once more. He stood, making his way toward the door as she slowly slunk back underneath his fur sheets. “And, Illia…”  
“Yes?” She asked, her eyes measuring his demeanor. He seemed as though he were still on edge, but more relaxed now that she was awake.   
“My name is Darius.”  



End file.
